The Blue Ball
by melliott
Summary: Post-Reichenbach, John finds a mysterious item in 221B, which brings back a strange memory from the day he saw Sherlock fall. Is it possible that Sherlock's not really dead? Sherlock and John are reunited and together face incredible danger. Lots of angst! Starts a bit slow, but it is really picking up steam, so give it a try!
1. Chapter 1

John Watson grumbled at the array of crisp, white envelopes strewn inside the front door of 221 Baker Street. Bills. Several with angry red lettering spelling out "Final Notice," or other threatening language that made John feel even worse than usual. He couldn't seem to get ahead of the bills now that he was paying the full rent and all of the expenses alone.

Yes, logically he knew he should move or get a new flatmate, but he couldn't bring himself to do those things. He didn't like the thought of someone else sleeping in Sherlock's room and even though the flat evoked many memories that were painful, John had decided that, for now at least, those memories were the most important things he had.

He trudged up the stairs, but not fast enough to avoid Mrs. Hudson, who chuntered on about the weather, her hip and the effects of the weather upon her hip. She was a dear thing and John was fond of her, but tonight he just wanted to sit down and not think for a while. He made his apologies, drug himself up the 17 stairs and entered the flat, while looking down and sorting through the bills in his hand.

Which proved to be a mistake, as he slipped on something while crossing into the sitting room. Well, rolled, would be a better way to describe it, he thought to himself as he was flailing backwards, his feet having shot out from under him. It must have taken less than a second, but while he was airborne, already anticipating a hard landing, he saw the object that caused this dramatic entrance – a small, round ball. "Where have I seen that ball before?" he wondered as he hit the floor, ass first, followed by elbows and then the back of his head. Stunned, he lay there motionless for a moment, his mind and body adjusting to this trauma. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the ball continued to roll, and was now gently rebounding off the wall and coming toward him.

It was stopped by a crease in the carpet, just inches from his face. A small, round ball. Blue. Made of rubber. Like the kind they used in hand ball. But John didn't play hand ball. It wasn't his ball. How the hell had it found its way to middle of the floor?

Groaning, he reached out to pluck it from the carpet. The instant his fingers made contact with the smooth rubber, a memory popped into his mind. Sherlock sitting on the floor at St. Bart's, bouncing a ball. A small, blue ball. Exactly like the one in John's hand. "Strange," he thought. "Why had Sherlock been bouncing a ball?" John tried to remember other times when he'd seen Sherlock do something remotely sporty and came up empty. He started to feel that bouncing the ball had been very out of character for Sherlock.

John was able to sit up now and stare more closely at the ball. Again he wondered how it got into the flat and the middle of the floor. He pulled himself up to standing, picked up the bills (which had scattered as he was flying through the air moments ago) and stuck the ball in his pocket. Probably best to not think about it anymore. He tried to not dwell on Sherlock, he tried to just do the best he could with each day, each moment. It was always there, of course. Right below the surface. It took almost nothing to recall standing on the ground, looking up at the sky as Sherlock flew closer and closer to the earth. He had gone over that telephone conversation a thousand times in his mind, always wanting to say something else, something different that would have changed the outcome. But he never had the right words and Sherlock always fell and there was nothing to be done about it except to put the kettle on, heat up something in the microwave and sit in front of the tele to waste another night.

He went through the motions without thinking. Turned the hob on, microwave, tea bag in mug, milk at the ready. He stood, waiting for the whistle of the kettle or the ding of the microwave, leaning against the counter with a happy absence of thought. The microwave dinged first and as he turned, he could feel the ball in his pocket again, caught between his body and the kitchen counter. Pressed against his body like that reminded him of being in school when he and his friends would try and squeeze a tennis ball between their upper arm and their torso, so as to make their arm go numb. It was a fun trick, but as a kid he didn't realize that squeezing the ball was stopping the blood flow to the arm, which is what caused the numbness. Now, as a medical doctor thinking back all those years ago, it was amusing to think how stupid he and the other boys were. It was a miracle none of them had any permanent damage, considering they were essentially stopping their own pulses.

The cup in his hand crashed to the floor, shattering. Could it be possible that Sherlock knew this trick with the ball? John pulled the ball from his pocket and looked at it again, his heart pounding in his chest. He slipped the ball between his upper arm and his chest, squeezing as hard as he could on the main artery in his arm. Almost immediately he could tell that the blood flow was substantially reduced because the arm felt cold and numb. The fingers of his other hand fumbled to take the pulse of his numb hand. He squeezed the ball against his chest and his fingers felt no perceptible pulse. No perceptible pulse. When he had reached out to Sherlock, poor broken Sherlock, there was no perceptible pulse in his thin, ghostly wrist. Was this because he was gone from this earth, or because the blue ball Sherlock had been playing with earlier was now squeezed between his arm and chest so as to make his pulse imperceptible?

John's head was swimming and his legs were weak. He had begged Sherlock to not be dead, to have found a way to cheat death. Could this be it? He clutched the ball in his hands and held it to his chest. He had hope. For the first time in all the months since he saw Sherlock fall from the sky, he had hope.


	2. Chapter 2

Molly was bent over a female corpse who was lying open from a large Y-incision and a formidable chest spreader. John could tell Molly was examining the heart, probably looking for signs of Arteriosclerosis. She looked up as he made a gentle clearing of his throat so as not to frighten her. "John," she exclaimed, "it's lovely to see you!" She came at John with open arms, which normally would have been a warm gesture, but due to the blood and viscera smeared on her smock, John recoiled. Molly caught herself and laughed. "Sorry!" She pulled off the gloves and the apron. John said, "that's better," and they gave each other a proper hug.

"Gosh, I haven't seen you, well, how long now? Since the funeral, I guess."

"Yes," he replied, "eighteen months. Sorry. Didn't mean to be out of touch so long."

Molly brushed it off, "no, no, of course I wasn't suggesting anything. Just surprising how quickly the time has gone."

John looked away. "It seems longer sometimes, actually. Seems a lifetime." There is a pause as neither knows how to respond. "So, how are you, Molly? Doing well?"

"Alright, yeah. Busy. Always busy here. People keep dying, hard as they try to fight it."

"Yeah, I suppose you're right on that."

"What brings you to St. Bart's? Visiting someone?"

"I came to see you, actually."

"Me?"

"Molly, I…I'd like to see Sherlock's autopsy report." She freezes. "I know it's probably not proper, but I'm curious about some things and I just need to know exactly how he died. For closure or whatever. Do you think you could help me?"

She is nervous. He can see that she's gone pale and seems quite flustered. Why, he wonders? "I don't know, John. You don't want to read that."

"I know it will be…difficult, but I'm a doctor. And he was my best mate. And I feel I owe it to him to know, to understand…please, Molly."

"I don't think it's a good idea. I could get into trouble…"

"Molly, I'll stand here, right here, for five minutes, glance at the report and you can put it right back and no one will be the wiser. Please, Molly, I'm begging you."

He sees that he's worn her down. He hadn't expected this level of resistance from her. There's something curious about this that he knows he should examine, but the folder in Molly's hand as she walks toward him stops those thoughts. It stops all thoughts. His best friend, a man he dearly loved, the man who brought John back from the brink of despair was reduced to a quarter -inch stack of papers in a tattered manila folder.

"Here he is, John." She held it out and, for the first time since coming up with his plan to investigate Sherlock's death, John had serious doubts about going through with it. Did he want to know the details? See the photos of the injuries? Learn how Sherlock went from being a vital, powerful, unpredictable man to being a body on a slab? He knew, if he was being honest with himself, that the odds of Sherlock having staged his own suicide were abysmally low. It was likely that when he opened the folder, he would see and read things that he'd regret. Images worse than that of Sherlock falling from the sky. Unconsciously, his hand slipped into his jacket pocket and clutched the blue ball. "Forward," it encouraged.

He reached for the folder and opened it gently. On top were a series of photos, of a long and lean body broken. A leg, twisted. A skull, split open. Arms curled in unnatural poses. John leaned against the steel table for support. He drew a long breath, steadied himself and looked again, more detached this time, pretending to be Sherlock. Taking in details and analyzing, but not getting lost in it all. Yes, broken bones, crushed skull, but was this in fact Sherlock's body? There was no photograph of the face. Every photo was in isolation, showing some detail of the victim. And it could have been Sherlock's body, no doubt about it. But it wasn't definitely Sherlock.

Now the autopsy report. "Deceased died from massive head trauma caused by fall from a great height." A listing of the bones broken, nine in total. A detailed examination of the body, an excruciating description of the head wound. It was all there in black and white, well, white and blue ink, written in a steady hand that never seemed to hesitate or break mental stride. (John noticed this because usually his own notes on patients were filled with obvious stops and starts – it was hard to make it all look seamless like this report did.) The autopsy was obviously conducted by a highly-skilled expert who knew what they were doing. John had seen autopsy reports before, many times while serving in Afghanistan, and it had been rare for someone to be so perfectly specific about the cause of death. Usually doctors or medical examiners figured that getting the gist of it was good enough, the person was already dead, right? At a certain point, that level of exactitude ceased to matter. But the person who conducted the autopsy on Sherlock's body (god, that was hard to think about, hard to imagine him spread open on one of these metal tables) had gone above and beyond their duty. John was just starting to understand that this was all a dead end, that there was nothing more to learn here, and probably nothing more to learn about Sherlock's death at all, and that, yes, he was dead, when Molly interrupted.

"Five minutes, John."

She reached for the folder. "Hmm? Oh, right. Yes. Thank you, Molly." He started to hand over the folder. "Your colleague was very thorough. Went above and beyond."

"Colleague?"

"Whoever did Sherlock's autopsy did an excellent job. From a purely professional perspective, of course."

Molly hesitated for a moment and then said, "I did Sherlock's autopsy."

"This is your report?"

"Yes. Do you think it strange that I did it myself?"

John pulled the folder back and looked at the report again. Flawless. "No, Molly. I know how you felt about Sherlock. Doing his autopsy yourself would have been a gift to him. Your last gift. Making sure you were the one who took care of these final needs. But this isn't the autopsy of Sherlock Holmes."

"Of course it is."

"No, Molly. If it had been Sherlock's body on that table, your hand would have trembled, your mind would have wandered as it processed the grief and tears would have stained the page, puddling the ink. But this report is pristine. It shows no personal connection, nothing but the most detached, clinical assessment of Sherlock's injuries. Sherlock's crushed cranium, Sherlock's broken bones, Sherlock's exploded heart. Sherlock. The man you fancied. The man you dreamed about. And you expect me to believe that his corpse laid here on this slab and you never shed a tear and your hand never shook?"

Molly is shaking, babbling and she runs from the room without saying another coherent word. John feels a sense of exhilaration and understands, for the first time, the rush of what Sherlock must have felt upon making one of his great deductive leaps. It was thrilling. The folder, labeled 'Holmes, Sherlock,' felt light in his hand. The riddle would continue to unravel, he felt sure of it. "I'm coming for you, Sherlock," he said, striding out of the room, smiling for the first time in what seemed like forever.


	3. Chapter 3

Molly was in on Sherlock's secret, John was certain, but now she was nowhere to be found. He kicked himself for having let her run out before he got some real answers from her. He'd tracked her to her flat, but according to a nosy neighbor, Molly had run out earlier with a rucksack that looked to be bursting at the zip. She had left London, he presumed. Although it was disappointing that she wasn't talking to him, her actions were practically shouting that Sherlock Holmes was alive and well. And that was…well, magical seemed like a strong word, but by god, when John thought of Sherlock being alive the only word that came to mind was magical.

The next few days seemed to pass in a blur as John turned this over and over in his mind. The great joy, the chemical rush of endorphins, surging through his body at the thought of seeing Sherlock again was almost overwhelming after so many long, dark months of loneliness and misery. Now that the fog had lifted from his brain, he started to really see the world again. The bright spring jackets of the pretty girls who worked on Shaftsbury Avenue, the shimmering rain drops reflecting traffic lights, making them look like dancing beads of pure color. And twice, from the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a man in a great coat, moving away in a quick swirl. It was fast, too fast to capture the image in his mind and bring it into perfect focus, but although his eye could not verify it, his heart said it was Sherlock.

He continued his detecting, trying to fill in some of the gaps by making his own deductions, starting with the assumption that Sherlock went to the roof of St. Bart's to fake his own suicide, for reasons that must be tied, in some unknown way, to Moriarty. Sherlock had the ball, the blue rubber ball, with him that day, John was sure of that. Clearly Sherlock had gotten Molly to get a group of medics (or people to play at being medics) to surround Sherlock when he fell. This group of faceless people who somehow kept John from doing more than lightly grazing Sherlock's wrist in search of a pulse (which he now believed didn't register due to the pressure of the ball against Sherlock's axillary artery). Now that he thought about it (with some distance from the emotional hell of seeing his friend's lifeless body and bloody face), John felt that it was all rather odd that suddenly there was a gurney that swept Sherlock's body away on that fateful day without waiting for the police or Medical Examiner. Shouldn't they have tried to revive him? Done more of an examination at the scene? Who were those people who swooped in and hurried Sherlock away? Colleagues of Molly's? Members of Sherlock's homeless network? The possibilities were intriguing.

After work one evening, John, knackered from a long day at the surgery, made himself a strong cup of tea. He was about to take his usual chair and tune out with a bit of tele, but for some reason, he sat in Sherlock's former chair instead. In the quiet, semi-dark room, he leaned his head back in the chair where Sherlock had spent so many hours struggling to make sense of the facts, the data, that were unique to every case.

"Alright, just pretend I'm Sherlock. Easy enough." He snorted at the absurdity of that statement. "What's the biggest question I have?" John thought for a moment. There was one thing that kept rolling around in his mind. One question that seemed like it could answer many others. "Assuming that he was trying to get away from Moriarty, why did Sherlock fake his own death as opposed to just going into hiding?"

It was a daunting question, that was certain. Sherlock could have vanished more easily than making this big spectacle of his death. But then, Moriarty would have gone after him, right? So, that's one reason, John thought to himself. What else? "Come on, think!"

He brought himself back to those last moments on the telephone with Sherlock. Usually when John thought about their last conversation he was filled with regret for all the things he left unsaid, he rarely dwelled on the words that were actually spoken. "What did Sherlock say? I'm a fraud. Tell them all, I'm a fraud."

John recalled the emotion in Sherlock's voice during this "confession," the cracks and strains in the pitch and timbre of his voice. There was no faking that kind of feeling. John knew Sherlock, knew what kind of man he was. Proud. Absolutely certain of his intelligence. And moral. Sherlock Holmes would trick someone into giving information or saying too much, but he would never live his own life as a lie. When Sherlock said, "I'm a fraud," it was a lie. But why? Why would he lie to John, and why ask John to tell Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade that Sherlock was a fake?

"Ohhhhh." To make it easier for everyone he left behind. "Dammit, Sherlock. Did you think we would just stop caring?" That Sherlock would think this, that he would think that his friends only loved him because of his deductive wizardry, and that if this somehow vanished that they wouldn't care about him anymore, made John very sad. More than at any other time he had the strong desire to hold his friend in his arms, to comfort this terribly difficult, prickly man. To let him know he was loved unconditionally.

"I hope I still get the chance." John was having success verbalizing his ideas and so he decided to roll with it. "Alright, what do I know so far? Well, I know, or at least strongly suspect, that Sherlock Holmes faked his own death with assistance from Molly Hooper. I think he did it to both evade Moriarty and to protect the feelings of the few people that he cared about. I believe he is still alive and I even think…" and there was a flash of mental light as John found his fingers curling around the blue ball in his pocket, "I even think that Sherlock Holmes planted this ball in this room in the hopes that I would put it all together and realize that he's not dead."

The energy and exhilaration he felt while expressing these theories aloud propelled him out of Sherlock's chair and he stood bolt upright with arms spread in the middle of the room. "Oh, yes! Yes!" John shouted at the world. "Ha, ha! I'm going to find you, Sherlock. You can't come out and tell me where you are, but I'll follow the clues and find you, if it's the last thing I do. I'm coming for you, Sherlock Holmes. That's an absolute promise!"


	4. Chapter 4

For several days, John awaited a further sign from Sherlock Holmes. None came. At least, none that he could discern definitively. Yes, there did appear to be a run on milk at his local shop, and the package of Hob Nobs in the cupboard only had one Hob Nob left and really, he couldn't remember eating all those biscuits himself. But he try as he might, he was unable glean any information as to Sherlock's whereabouts.

"Why won't he just reach out to me?" John wondered aloud during his commute home.

"What's that, ya little git?," growled an intimidatingly large man pressed up against him on the tube. "Yer lookin' fer someone ta touch ya?"

"N-no. Just…no. Sorry, talking to myself," John stammered.

"Playin' with yerself?" another terrifying gentleman chimed in.

John realized he was surrounded by a group of men that would comfortably fit in at the local docks. And no where else.

"Sorry, no. Just...no," he said as the train doors slid open at the Regent's Park stop, one before Baker Street. "Getting off," he shouted, worming his way to the door.

"Aye, I bet he's getting' off, little tosser!" another of the large, hairy men roared, as they all burst out laughing.

The doors slid closed behind him, none too soon. He was in for a bit of a walk home alone Marleybone Road, but it would give him time to think - this time to himself. "Okay, so Sherlock hasn't given me another clue. Why not? Maybe he's not really alive and I'm just deluding himself." That was a rotten thought that stopped him in his tracks. It took a moment to sort of let that wash over him before he could go on. "No. No, I'm not going to dwell on that. I'm certain that Sherlock faked his own death and I know the blue ball did not just materialize in our flat. He had to be the one who put it there."

At this, he clutched the ball in his pocket. It reassured him that he was on the right path and so he continued. "Okay, so why hasn't Sherlock contacted me with another clue?" This was perplexing. "I'm ready and waiting, Sherlock, let's have it," John thought to himself. "Oh! That's it! I know I'm on to something, but Sherlock doesn't know I've figured it out. I have to send him a sign." But what?

Arriving at Baker's Street, he saw nothing the tiniest bit out of place. As far as he could tell, no one had been in the flat since he left that morning. He immediately went to the windows and wondered if he should place something there that could be seen from the outside. A flag? Tape an "X" on the pane of glass? "What should I do, just leave Sherlock a note?" He looked around the flat, a bit lost. Again, he felt the blue ball in his pocket. "No, not a note. A message." And with that, he pulled the ball from his coat and put it in the center of the floor, exactly where he had found it.

"Alright, Sherlock. I'm ready for you. Let the game begin." John hurried back out of the flat, deciding to treat himself to a nice long dinner away from the flat.

Tottling home several hours (and four pints) later, John was a bit giddy. He missed the key hole of 221b Baker Street a couple of times and laughed at himself like an idiot. A passing couple gave him a dirty look, which he returned. Finally, the key slid into the hole, the door swung open and he followed, flushed from the alcohol and anxious to see the results of his experiment. He stumbled to the bottom of the stairs, took a couple of breaths to sturdy himself and trounced up to his flat.

There, in the center of the room, exactly where he had carefully placed the blue ball, he found – nothing. The ball was gone. "Jesus Christ!" he exclaimed. "He took the ball!" John spun around gleefully, looking under the couch and chairs to ensure the ball hadn't merely rolled away. "Not here! Or here!" After a quick search of the room, he was certain – the ball had vanished.

No, not vanished. The ball had been taken. Removed from this room by Sherlock Holmes. He'd bet his life on it. "Ah ha! I figured you out, Sherlock!" John was drunk on beer and high on adrenaline. It was an exhilarating feeling. "Now, to follow the trail." Once again, he scanned the room, this time not looking for the ball, but rather whatever clue Sherlock had left for him to follow.

His eyes danced across the desk, a mess of papers, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Same with the cushions on the sofa, the cattle skull, the wall paper, the mantle. He passed into the kitchen. The table and counters were pretty orderly, nothing out of place, nothing odd or unusual. Fridge, cupboards, bathroom. It was all checking out to be the same as when he'd left the flat earlier. The only change he could tell was that the mysterious blue ball was gone.

"Shit," John said, plopping down in his chair. As suddenly as it had come on, his surge of energy was draining away. "You can never do anything the easy way, can you Sherlock? Always have to make things so bloody difficult." He closed his eyes and felt the alcohol buzz fade. What should he do now? Had Sherlock taken the ball but not left him a message? What would be the point? No, he thought, there must be something here.

"Come on, John, get off your arse," he told himself, standing again. He remembered his earlier idea of putting a signal in the window. Maybe that's what Sherlock did, he thought. He crossed behind Sherlock's chair to the window, bumping into the antique globe that always seemed to be in the way whenever he cleaned the flat. "What the hell is this thing doing here?" Pushing it aside, he pulled the curtain from the window and looked out. There was nothing in the window frame or on the glass. Nothing outside the window and nothing different from the view that he could tell. "Dammit, Sherlock! Don't come here and take my ball but not leave me a clue! You didn't touch one thing, you heartless bastard!" And then he looked down at the globe. "Ohhhhhhhh." He reached out to touch the antique surface, shiny and sepia toned with age. "The globe, is it, Sherlock? What am I to learn from this old globe?" And just like that, it popped into his mind. The Globe Theatre. Shakespeare's Globe. That was the clue.

John raced to his computer and brought up the site for Shakespeare's Globe. The season was opening tomorrow at 2 p.m. Unfortunately, there were no tickets available for online purchase, but he knew from past experience that he could probably get a ticket at the Theatre. There were always cancellations, right? Regardless, Sherlock wanted him at the Globe, so that's where he would be.

"So, it's off to the Theatre tomorrow, eh, Sherlock? Well, that's just excellent. They do say, 'the play's the thing.'"


	5. Chapter 5

John woke with a sense of purpose the next morning, passing quickly through his morning routine. He even found a bit of extra energy and decided to put himself through a quick workout, something he hadn't done in, god, far too long, now. As the clock struck 11 a.m., he checked himself in the mirror, gave the globe one last spin and decided he was ready for battle. "Right then, here we go," he said, turning on his heel and bounding down the stairs to the street below.

It was one of those rare English spring days when the sun lit up the sky, a perfect contrasting yellow orb in a sea of happy blue. No taxi for him on a day like this, that was certain. He decided to take the tube to the Millennium Bridge and walk to The Globe. At his tube station he did a quick route for himself – Jubilee line to Bond Street, transfer to the Central Line to Bank and that would be close enough. He could transfer again to Mansion House, but he enjoyed walking along the river, particularly on a day such as today. And he'd given himself loads of time to get to the Theatre.

Coming up out of the station at Bank, John felt a sense of excitement and anticipation that surprised him. He knew what was at the heart of it – Sherlock. Well, the promise of seeing Sherlock again, hopefully soon. He might be on a wild goose chase, but he had a very reassuring sense that all was going to end well. "Hmm. Shakespeare," he smiled to himself. All he had to do was get a ticket to a sold out performance at The Globe on opening day (it sounded a bit difficult when put like that) and he was sure that somehow, Sherlock would find him.

Ahead loomed the Millennium Footbridge. Open for 10 years now, the bridge had originally proved too unstable to cross by pedestrians, who adjusted their walking gaits in time to the bridge's natural sway. This made the swaying worse and it took two years to correct the problem. John always enjoyed walking across the "wobbly bridge," as it was still called. The view of the city was breathtaking and he always felt a bit like he was performing a high-wire act. Suspended high above the Thames, he was literally walking through the air, levitating from one bank to the other.

The Tate Modern was just ahead of him, now, and he turned to see St. Paul's directly behind, perfectly bracketed by the bridge. God, he loved this city and the special vitality of this area in particular. He thought about taking a quick stroll through the museum, but the promise of an adventure kept him walking forward.

Shakespeare's Globe literally bustled with activity. Excited theatregoers swarmed the footpaths, looking up at the Globe in awe. The Theatre had been constructed to look as close to the original as possible, with period building materials and techniques used throughout. It was a wonder, that was certain. John closed his eyes just a bit and felt transported back in time 400 years to the height of the Elizabethan Era. The original Globe had burned to the ground long ago, but this faithful and loving recreation brought the past back to life. Again, he thought, is there anywhere else like London?

John stood in the cue for the box office, which wasn't too long, as he was early. But he could hear already that the hopeful people standing in front of him were finding their dreams of tickets dashed. Still, he waited his turn. "Any chance you've a single anywhere?" he asked the woman behind the glass. "I'm sorry sir, even the yard is full. It's opening day, you know." Damn. "Right. Ta." John said.

As he began to turn from the box office he thought to himself, "Too bad Sherlock didn't think to make a reservation for me." This amused him for a moment and then he quickly turned back to the window before the bloke behind him could step up. "Ummm, does there happen to be a ticket held for John Watson, please?" "John Watson?" she asked. "Yes." There was no way there actually would be a ticket, he knew, but no harm in asking, right? As she flipped through the stack of envelopes, John started to imagine what else he could do with his day, and how else he might try to get in touch with Sherlock. His mind began to wander as he waited and he didn't actually hear the box office woman the first time she spoke.

"Here you are. Dr. John Watson, one ticket." "Excuse me?" John said, bewildered. "Your ticket, sir. Enjoy the show," she said, sliding an envelope with one precious ticket inside. John reached out in amazement, taking the ticket and stepping back out of the line in total shock. "He left me a ticket," John said aloud, too stunned to care what those around him may have thought. John held the envelope as if it contained the world's most valuable item, and in many ways, that's exactly what it was to him. Actual proof that not only was his friend, his dear, beloved friend, Sherlock Holmes, alive, but that they would soon be reunited.

As he walked away from the box office, John took in the scene surrounding him. There were jugglers and musicians, all dressed in Elizabethan garb. People were clapping along and kids were playing with glee. The festive atmosphere was intoxicating and the rush of adrenaline he'd experienced upon receiving the ticket had made him practically giddy. As a roaming musician playing a lively tune on a recorder danced past, John found himself dancing along, following a small crowd of others who were also swept up in the music. This was literally his happiest moment since the day he'd lost Sherlock.

As the impromptu jig wound to its conclusion, John caught his breath and began to scan the crowd for that most familiar face, the visage he most longed to see. "I'm here, Sherlock. Where are you?" As it was getting near to show time, he grabbed a prawn and rocket sandwich ("probably not very Elizabethan, but ah, well," he thought), a packet of crisps and a pint of ale at one of the vendor stands. Wolfing it all down, he was ready to make his way into the Theatre.

"Would you like to rent a cushion?" asked a young woman standing near the entrance. "Only wooden benches inside," she added. John pulled out the ticket, trying to find out where he was to be. "Do I have a proper seat or am I one of the groundlings? I don't even know where I'm sitting," he told her. She held out her hand and checked the ticket. "Oh, this is lovely. You're in the middle gallery, so it's the wooden benches, unless you want to hire a cushion. You might be alright, but it is 'Hamlet,' so…you might want a bit of padding, just in case" John smiled, "right. He is known for chuntering on, isn't he? Yeah, I'll take a cushion." "Three pounds," she said, handing him a seat pad. "Cheers," he replied, and walked into Shakespeare's Globe.

God, this place took your breath away. He'd been here for a handful of other productions, but he was still overwhelmed. The gleaming English oak, the amazing woodworking of the stage areas, the way that the midday sun perfectly lit the playing space - gorgeous and ingenious. There was something tremendously gratifying about watching theatre in this kind of environment.

"You're third down in this row, sir," the usher said, handing John a program. "Thanks," John replied, jostling his way to his seat. He adjusted the cushion and got situated. He unfolded the program and scanned the list of dramatis persona, looking for a name or pseudonym that might be familiar. Nothing. He began trying to extrapolate any references in the play that might be important, but couldn't come up with one. Sighing, he thought to himself, "Hamlet, eh, Sherlock? What am I supposed to conclude from this?" And then there was no more time for pondering, as two guards entered the stage and the play began.


	6. Chapter 6

John was absolutely swept away. He'd seen other productions of "Hamlet," though not for many years. But this was by far the most captivating performance of any play he'd ever attended. Maybe it was the spectacular performances or this most perfect setting – the loving recreation of Shakespeare's own Globe, but what John suspected was that for the first time in his life, he actually _related_ to the character of Hamlet.

Maybe it was a bit because of the melancholia that had dominated his life of late, or the feeling of isolation, but most definitely what he felt connected to was Hamlet's struggle with the impossibility of certainty. John watched Hamlet constantly search out more information about the fate of his father, always knowing that he could never know with absolute certitude that his uncle was responsible. In the same way that John felt in his heart that Sherlock was alive, but he lacked absolute proof. Both John and Hamlet were forced to continue moving forward, waiting for more information to take action, struggling with the notion that life is based in uncertainty.

John smiled as Hamlet began to tell Horatio of his journey to England and his subsequent adventure aboard a pirate ship that eventually brought him home to Denmark. John had always imagined what Hamlet must have been like on a ship full of mangy pirates – the proverbial fish out of water to say the least. There were parallels between Sherlock and Hamlet, too, obviously, the biggest being their mutual sense of isolation, strong sense of morality (though both skewed in certain ways), and the ways in which everyone in their lives served as a foil to their own character. For a moment, John tried to imagine that if Sherlock was Hamlet, what role did he, John, play? Polonius? Laertes? God, he hoped that it wasn't Ophelia.

They came to the climactic battle. One by one, the characters fell to their unalterable doom and Hamlet himself was struck with the poisoned blade. John always thought at this point that Hamlet has been so bloody promising. He had so much to live for. But as ever, the sweet prince faded from this world, leaving a vast emptiness behind. Exactly like his Sherlock.

The lump in his throat and his glassy eyes were a more than a testimony to the power of the performance and the timeliness of this classic work. He was remembering Sherlock, lying on the pavement, bloody and broken, and completely beyond his reach. As the play ended and the audience erupted in applause, John was suddenly on his feet, shouting and whistling his approval, his voice breaking with emotion as the tears streamed down his face. Cheering wildly helped expel some of the powerful feelings that were bursting inside him and he was fairly certain that the people on either side thought he was a bit mad.

The audience began filing out of his row, but John couldn't tear himself away from the stage. He knew there must have been something critically important he was to have worked out, to have understood during the performance that he just didn't grasp. What was it? What clue did Sherlock leave behind? And if he couldn't figure it out, what would he do? Now the last one in his seating section, John was finally roused from his worried thoughts by a gentle throat clearing. The girl who had rented him the cushion was right next to him. "Oh, sorry. You'll be wanting the cushion back, of course. Sorry, I was just taking a moment to…think," he said.

"It is a play that does provoke thought, that's true," she responded.

"Well, here's the cushion. Thanks again. It was an excellent suggestion. Not sure my bum could have taken it, otherwise," he said, feeling a bit stupid.

He looked at the stage again and then began to leave his row as the girl picked up his cushion. Just as he made it to the stairs, he heard her ask, "would you like a tour?"

"Excuse me?"

"Backstage? I could give you a quick peek. If you promise not to tell anyone."

"Yeah, no, I'm very good at keeping secrets. A tour sounds brilliant. Lead the way!"

The young woman slipped in front of John and led him down the stairs, toward the backstage area of the Theatre. John was still under the Globe's many charms and found his eyes could not take in everything that he saw. They walked past crew members and actors, and John found himself ducking and spinning to stay out of the way. There was a tremendous amount of post-performance energy in the air and John felt buoyed by it as he followed the usher. Surprisingly, no one seemed to think that he was out of place and in fact he received many smiles as he passed through the cast.

The further into the bowels of the Theatre that they walked, the less crowded things became. Soon he was following the young woman down a narrow passageway to what turned out to be an enormous costume room filled with gowns, doublets and every manner of dress that could possibly be required in a Shakespearean play. "Wow," he was able to squeak out as his jaw dropped.

"They're really something, aren't they? I love this room," the usher said. "Go ahead, look around. No one will mind."

John took her for her word and began to walk into the costume room. Seeing the beautiful detail of the costumes up close was absolutely remarkable. He could see a Cleopatra costume glimmering in the corner and a wild and dirty heap of clothing that could only be Caliban's. He even reached out to gently touch some of the fabrics, though he was certain it wasn't strictly allowed. "This is just…mind blowing," he said to the girl, turning to find her in the rows of costumes. But she wasn't there. "Hello? Are you there?" he called out, but received no reply. Suddenly, the lights shut off and he was alone in a pitch black room with about 1,000 outrageously expensive costumes between him and the door.

"Perfect," he grumbled, dragging out his mobile and using the light as a weak substitute torch. He slowly and carefully picked his way toward where he thought the door was and finally saw a thin crack of light. Groping, his hand brushed the handle and he was out in the hallway again, more dimly lit than before. There was still no sign of his tour guide or anyone else for that matter. He really had no choice except to try and make his way out himself.

The only problem was that he had gotten completely turned around in the many twisting hallways backstage. It was like a maze, but a dark maze and all roads seemed to lead to lower ground. He was certain he needed to be walking up, up toward the out of doors, toward freedom. John was feeling anxious, almost a deep sense of panic began to overtake him. As he walked up and down hallways (frequently backtracking the same areas over and over in desperation), he began trying to pull open every door he past. One was a janitor's closet, one was a kitchen area, most didn't open, one was a loo (which he took advantage of), but none seemed to lead out. Finally, after what seemed like hours twisting and turning under the Theatre, he found a door that seemed to be a long passage way, the end of which seemed to be some sort of light peering through a thin crack in the wall. There was no way to tell what was down there, but it seemed his best hope. He plunged through the door and it slammed shut behind him.

His fingers danced along the walls on either side, trying to compensate for his blindness by feeding his mind information on where he was. Wood, slightly rough. Now and then a rope hanging down, wrapped around a thick nail. A piece of cloth, rough, like burlap. No, not that coarse – muslin. He continued letting his fingertips lead him forward. As he drew closer to the end of the tunnel, the fabric became softer and warmer, velvet, he guessed, which was probably why it was so dark in here. The velvet was absorbing all the light. It reminded him of when he worked on the backstage crew during an all-boy performance of "My Fair Lady" when he was at primary school. He still didn't know why the headmaster had chosen that particular show, but the thing he remembered about it (in addition to the rather embarrassing casting), was how it was his job to ensure that the velvet curtains remained in place during the show so that no light from back stage spilled out onto the playing space. As he reached the sliver of light at the end of the tunnel, he realized it was just a narrow gap between two velvet panels, which could only mean that another step forward would take him onto the stage of Shakespeare's Globe.

With trembling fingers, John pulled back the heavy black curtain a few millimeters, just enough for his eye to look out onto the stage. It was empty and getting dark. He'd been in the Theatre so long that the sun was beginning to give up its fight. Still, it was brighter out here than it had been in the hallway behind him and in the depths of the Theatre, at least for now. He inched forward slowly; never had John Watson felt more out of place than he did while treading the boards of The Globe. "God, this is practically sacrilege," he muttered, shuffling forward. He could see into the audience seating, and in fact could see his own seat from which he had watched "Hamlet," an experience which seemed a lifetime ago.

"Get a grip, John. Get off the stage and the hell out of here, now." He began to look for a way from the edge of the stage down into what was called the lawn, where the groundlings stood during the performance. The stage was actually higher up than he had imagined and there was no set of ladders or stairs that he could see. He would have to shimmy to the edge of the stage, slide his legs over, lower himself down as far as he could and let gravity take care of the rest. There was a definite chance of a twisted ankle, possibly a sprain, but he doubt he'd break anything and the setting of the sun coupled with his growing panic about being abandoned and alone in this enormous place meant that he was going to risk it for the chance to be free.

John gathered his courage and strode across the stage, head facing forward and ready to carry out his plan. He was maybe three or four yards from the lip of the stage when the next step he took was into absolute nothingness. One moment the floor was in front of him and the next it was gone. He was falling, faster than he could think, and then even more suddenly, landing, a surprisingly soft and gentle landing into a large air bag, which easily cushioned the impact of his fall.

He had been too startled to scream and now the breath was knocked out of him, so John just lay on his back, gasping for air, as he tried to figure out what the hell had happened. Looking up, he could just see a perfect square of twilight-y sky above him. A trap door. He had fallen through a trap door and was once again in the bowels of the stage. "Oh, not again," he groaned. He began to think he'd never escape this bloody Theatre.

He remembered learning, long ago, that in Shakespeare's day, the pit under the stage was called Hell and if a character fell into this space, it was as though they were descending into the Devil's lair. "Well, that was appropriately named," he thought. He was in hell and there seemed to be no way out.

Suddenly, John heard a small scuff at the foot of the air bag. He tried to sit up, but it was difficult, as every move he made only served to contort his body into uncomfortable positions. Bringing his head up forced his bum down and his legs up in counterweight. He quickly gave up and just lay back, listening for another sound. He knew someone was in the room with him, but he could see nothing except the darkening square of sky above him. And then, that was gone as well, as a figure loomed over him, blocking out the last bit of light.

John drew in a quick breath as he saw the silhouette of the man hovering over him. "Oh, my god," he stammered, trying desperately to make sense of what he was seeing. Suddenly, a small torch came to life in the man's hand and a beam of light ended all of John's doubts. He no longer faced the impossibility of uncertainty, as he stared into the face of the man above him.

"Welcome to hell, John," said Sherlock Holmes.

And then John Watson, possibly inspired by the drama he had seen earlier that day, possibly because he'd only eaten a prawn sandwich all day, or maybe due to seeing a dead man come to life in front of him, did the only thing that seemed to make any sense. He fainted.


	7. Chapter 7

John Watson was lying on his back, of that much he was certain. Everything else was a bit of a blur. As his eyes began to flutter, signaling a return to consciousness, he was aware that he was, in fact, lying on a sofa in a lighted room. He could see posters for different Shakespearean productions scattered across the walls. Damn, he was still in the Theatre. Would he never find his way out? Wait, what had happened when he was down in that pit below the stage. He had seen…had he really seen…?

"Sherlock?"

Suddenly, inches from his face, there was Sherlock Holmes.

"Yes, John. I'm here."

"Oh, god. Where am I? What's happened?"

"You've fainted due to decreased blood to the brain. I'm guessing it's the shock of seeing me after so long, unless you have some sort of medical condition I'm not aware of." Sherlock paused for a moment. "Have you?"

"No."

"Good. I've brought you here to the actor's lounge while you recover. Drink this juice. Your blood sugar level is probably quite low. You must take better care of yourself, John."

John took a sip of the orange juice, absolutely gobsmacked at the fact he was sitting next to Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, who was not dead and buried in a cemetery, but a living, breathing man sitting so close John could feel his body heat.

"Yeah, well, at least I don't go jumping off buildings for fun."

"That wasn't fun, it was necessary."

"You better explain it then, Sherlock, because for me, the last 18 months have been pure hell and happy as I am that you're alive, I want to know why I had to suffer."

Sherlock took a steadying breath as he absorbed this blow. "Drink that juice while I tell you my story. And then you can hate me if you like, I won't hold it against you. But before I begin, John, let me assure you that killing myself off in your eyes, becoming dead to you, was the hardest thing I've ever done."

John's eyes went wide and his hands shook as he brought the glass to his lips for another long, slow drink. He hung on Sherlock's every word.

"Moriarty gave me a choice. Either kill myself, or he would kill you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. In fact, he had a sniper trained on each of you, waiting to pull the trigger if I didn't off myself. I'd known it would come down to this. Destroying me and forcing me to take my life was what he called, "The Final Problem."

John was wavering on the edge of a complete emotional breakdown. The sudden reunion with his friend, coupled with the new knowledge that everything Sherlock had done had been to protect his life and the lives of others, well, it was too much for a man to take. "You asked Molly Hooper for help, didn't you?"

Sherlock nodded. "Everyone you saw that day after I…jumped…was either under Molly's employ or one of my homeless network. I had to die in a way that convinced you utterly. Not easy to fake a death good enough to fool a medical doctor. I knew you'd take my pulse and so I remembered the old trick with your friend," he said, drawing the blue ball out of his pocket.

"You remembered, too, John, didn't you? I was playing with the ball when you got to the lab, trying to show you the clue that someday you might have to follow. Hoping that at some point in the future you might think, 'how odd that Sherlock was bouncing a ball.'" Sherlock paused, lost in his thoughts for a moment.

John could see and feel a deep sadness emanating from Sherlock. The lightness of spirit, the sharp confidence and curiosity seemed to have been dulled. "Why are you at the Globe?"

"Since my untimely death, I go from place to place, living rough, though not too rough. Theatres are nice places to hide out. Lots of access to costumes and makeup, so a disguise is always at the ready. And the company of actors and crew is always changing, so a new face is rarely noticed."

"Where have you been?"

"Around the world, trying to take apart Moriarty's network. I've even had some luck with two of the three snipers. Hired assassins, really. But there's one man left. Unfortunately, he's the best of the three. Sebastian Moran. I've not managed to get close enough to him to take him out of play." Sherlock hung his head, defeated.

"Sherlock, you got two out of three, that's pretty good. We can work on Moran, I know it."

"No, John. We can't. You see, Moran is your sniper and at any moment on any given day, he's got his crosshairs trained on you. We, you and I, can't work on anything together, because the second he knows I'm alive, he'll be coming for you, John, and he's the most deadly man in all the world. And I can't let you die, I just can't."

By the time Sherlock finished these deeply felt words, his eyes were bright with tears. John was deeply moved by Sherlock's feelings for him, even after all this time.

"Let's run away, then. Find somewhere he can't get to us."

"It's just not possible, I'm sorry to say. There is no evading a man like Moran."

"Alright, then we'll…I don't know, smoke him out. You come out of hiding, he comes for me, but we'll be waiting for him. He'll be the one in the trap. We'll get Lestrade and some of his boys…"

"No, John. I won't use you as bait to make my own situation better. Chances are you'd wind up dead and then what's the point of all of this?"

John was angry now. "So, why the hell did you come back if you don't want my help getting Moran? Why let me even know you were alive?"

Sherlock looked a bit wounded. "Because I missed you."

"Missed me or missed showing off?"

"Are they two different things?" John smiled in spite of himself. Sherlock took a deep breath and looked directly into John's eyes. "I missed _you_, John. Every day, all I wanted was to be in our flat, with you."

"Then come home."

"I can't, don't you see? You and I, we can't see each other again, but at least I know you're out there, alive."

"Yeah, well, the problem is that I'm not alive, Sherlock, not really. And I haven't been since I watched my best friend, the person I care about most in the world, step off of a bloody roof. I believed you were dead and I felt like I was dead. And if I go back to Baker Street now, that's what my life will be like again. Dead. I need you, Sherlock. I need you to make me whole, to give my life purpose. So, it's a risk, yeah, trying to get Moran. But if it means that I might get you back, might get my life back, then by god, I'm taking it." John was panting now from the exertion of saying these things to Sherlock, these things that had been building over the long lonely months.

"You could die."

"Yes. I could. I don't care."

"Moriarty threatened the three people he thought I was closest to - you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. He needn't have bothered with the others. I would have jumped off a roof for only you."

"Right. Well, now it's my turn to jump off the roof, or whatever. Let's take him out, Sherlock, and then we'll go back to the way it was. You and me in 221b Baker Street."

John holds out his hand to his friend. Sherlock takes it and then, at the same moment, they pull each other into a long, warm embrace. Sherlock finally says, his voice thick with emotion, "you've gotten boney. Aren't you eating?"

"You're one to talk. I'm guessing you haven't had a proper meal in months. Any chance we can go to dinner? I'm starving."

"Yes, just let me get into costume and makeup. Won't be a moment."

John followed Shakespeare into the attached dressing room, where he once again saw the Cleopatra costume hanging. "Oh, no. You don't mean…"

"Get a grip, John. That's not for me. I try to blend in, not stand out." Sherlock began altering his appearance as John stared at the man in the mirror, unable to tear his eyes away from his long-lost friend.

"So, what do we have to do? To get Moran to come out of hiding?"

Sherlock smiled, "oh, it shouldn't be too hard. I only have to rise from the dead."


	8. Chapter 8

It was a proper dinner, in a decent pub that Sherlock had found only a short walk from the Globe, and part of that walk was underground, via a secret passage. Sherlock was taking every precaution, which added a very cloak and dagger air to the event. At the pub, they both ordered a big meal, bangers and mash for John and a big shepherd's pie for Sherlock. After wolfing down their meals, they ordered a sticky pudding, which was absolutely delicious. John had the distinct impression that Sherlock was trying to fatten him up, but seeing that he wanted the same thing for Sherlock, he said nothing. He leaned back in the well-worn wooden chair, as stuffed as a Christmas goose. Yes, it was a very proper dinner.

Well, as proper as it could be considering that the man sitting across from his was wearing a prosthetic nose, false eyebrows, a putty chin, a long blond wig and clothing that looked like it had just come from the more flamboyant section of TopMen. John could barely stop himself from laughing every time he looked in Sherlock's eyes, which was often, because he couldn't get enough of his friend. After one particularly loud snort from John, Sherlock pursed his lips.

"What are you laughing at?"

"Really? You're seriously asking that question?"

John smiled. "God, it's so good to see you, Sherlock. You have no idea how much…I…"

"John…"

"I missed you and…"

"You don't have to say this."

"I want to, Sherlock. I want to say it. Because I was miserable without you. Just bloody…miserable."

John was teetering on the brink of tears. He took a deep breath, followed by a big swig of ale and then quickly wiped his sleeve across his eyes to dislodge the stinging tears. He stared down at the table, willing himself to pull it together, to not fall to pieces in public, in front of this crowded pub and especially, in front of Sherlock. As he cleared his throat, he saw was seemed from his blurred vision at first to be a large, thin, ghostly spider creeping across the table. Just as he was about to pull his hand away, John realized that the spider was actually Sherlock, and his friend's hand was seeking his own. The next moment John felt a surprising warmth as Sherlock's hand slipped into his palm and squeezed. This small comforting gesture did a tremendous amount to buoy John and in a few seconds he was able to squeeze back and give Sherlock a heartfelt grin.

Alright, dinner and dessert were over. Time to get down to brass tacks. John wasn't sure what was in store, but he had already decided he was in for anything. Now to find out what Sherlock had in mind. "So, you're going to take out Moran the same way you took out the other two?"

"Took out? You think I killed them?"

"You didn't?"

"No, though it might have been kinder. One sniper is now in the hands of the North Koreans, who assumed he was a spy with Her Majesty's Secret Service. Despite what you might have heard, Western cinema does seem to have infiltrated at least the upper echelon of the Korean government and they were very keen to have caught themselves a James Bond, as they called him. The second sniper is being put up quite nicely by the Americans at Guantanamo Bay. Planting evidence of terroristic activity is far less messy than pulling a trigger. They'll both spend the rest of their lives locked away from the world, which is a just punishment for the hundreds of lives they've taken. I shed no tears over them," Sherlock finished, curtly.

"But you couldn't pin anything on Moran?"

"He is an eel, Moran, not just slippery, but dangerous to touch, to be anywhere near. We will try to take him alive, of course, but I doubt he'll allow it. It will come down to a gun fight, which is why we need our best marksman," Sherlock said, staring at John even more pointedly.

As he began to understand that Sherlock meant him, John felt his heartbeat rise and blood rush to his face. "Oh, right. Well, if I'm the best marksman we've got, our plan might be doomed from the start."

Sherlock reached across the table again, this time less like a spider and more like a viper. His hands grabbed and held both of John's in a tight grip. "That's where you're wrong, John. Moran can stand back from a distance, aim through the sight on his gun and pull the trigger with deadly accuracy. There's no denying that. But what he does not know, what he cannot understand in any meaningful way, is war. Because that's what this is, John. An epic battle between myself and Moriarty, though he is beyond the grave, and you and Moran. And you are battle tested, strong and courageous," he said, clutching John's hands even harder. "These hands do not shake, do not falter. And if there is one man alive who can beat Moran at his own game, it is you."

Sherlock finally released John's hands and leaned back, his eyes shining brightly. Even with the putty and the nose and the wig, John didn't think it was possible for anyone who knew Sherlock to not recognize him at this moment. The energy was intoxicating and once again, John knew he would follow this man anywhere.

"Start carrying your gun with you everywhere, John, even around the flat. Once I'm out in the open, he'll come for you fast and hard."

"Right. I'll see if I can get a bullet-proof jacket off Lestrade," John answered.

"If it makes you feel better, by all means, but I'm afraid it will be of little help. When Moran is one of the world's most deadly assassins. He doesn't aim for the chest."

John felt a small wave of terror as he imagined a bullet penetrating his skull. Another deep breath. No sense worrying about it. If things got to that point, he'd be dead and would never know. Best to just go forward. "Right. Understood. How will I know when Moran is watching me?"

Sherlock leaned in. "Assume he's always watching you, John. I'm reasonably certain he lost you at the Globe, with hundreds of people exiting at the same time. There has been no sign of you for hours, so I doubt he's anywhere near here. Still, I took you through the secret tunnel and we came out over a block away. At this moment, he can't see you and you're safe. If you wanted, I could smuggle you out of the country and possibly hide your trail long enough to keep him away for a while," Sherlock offered, giving John a moment to ponder this alternative, which was attractive in that it did not end with him getting a bullet in the head. But Sherlock wasn't finished, "but you'd always know he was out there, hunting you. I know you can't live with that, as much as I would love to know you were safe."

John interrupted. "I don't want to be safe, I want to be with you," he blurted out.

The two men were staring intently at each other, a great feeling of love and mutual admiration passing between them and hanging in the air. Sherlock spoke, his voice tight with emotion. "Quite right."

John was feeling and thinking so many things in this moment. In fact, he was still reeling from the fact that Sherlock was truly alive. The heavy meal and sweet pudding sat heavy in his stomach as he began to dread walking out the pub and leaving Sherlock behind until they had captured or killed Moran, assuming that it could be done. "So, what do we do? How do you rise from the dead? Do you have a plan?"

Sherlock smiled. "I always have a plan, John. I won't tell you the whole thing, only your part. It's safer for you that way."

"Alright, what do I have to do?"

Sherlock leaned in and smiled in his devilish manner. "You, my dear friend, need to dig up my grave."


	9. Chapter 9

John steeled himself (an action which he'd had to take far too frequently as of late) and made the call from his mobile. On the second ring, a gruff voice answered. "Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Hi, Greg. It's John Watson."

"John! Well, your voice is a welcome one. How are you?"

"I'm well, thanks. Pretty well. And you?" God, how was he going to get around to this? Of course Sherlock had given him no guidance on how he was supposed to get Lestrade to lead an exhumation of the grave where Sherlock's corpse was supposed to be lying. The only instructions Sherlock had given John was to be sure that the coffin was opened by 6 p.m. on Wednesday. That gave John two days to somehow convince Lestrade to dig up the grave of Sherlock Holmes. The uproar in the press after his "suicide" was so great that he'd been tried in absentia several weeks later. The fact there hadn't been enough evidence to pin on Sherlock, along with some backroom jockeying by Mycroft Holmes, had prevented a guilty verdict, but that mattered to few. All of London was content to have Sherlock lying six feet under for all of eternity. So, how the hell was John supposed to suggest digging him up?

Lestrade's voice intruded upon John's thoughts. "I'm doing well myself. The probationary period is over now, so I'm back to full pay and rank, which is a relief."

Right. John remembered that Lestrade had been the scape goat for the Metropolitan Police because he had been the one who had invited Sherlock to work with his department. In many ways, Lestrade had paid the biggest price in terms of career and finances due to his association with Sherlock. And now that he was finally back where he'd been, Lestrade had the most to lose, with none of the emotional benefits to make the risks worthwhile.

"That's excellent news. Very pleased to hear it. Good for you, Greg. That's just…that's just great."

"Thank you." There was a pause as John tried desperately to figure out how to get to the topic of digging up Sherlock's grave. Almost without thinking, he blurted, "he didn't do it."

The silence on the other end of the line was like an echo in a canyon; it seemed to go on forever. "John…"

"I know, you don't want me to say it again, I know."

"I wish you could move on."

"Move on, when I know that an innocent man has been drug through the mud?"

"What does it matter, John? Whatever the public or the law things of Sherlock is irrelevant. He's dead," Lestrade said, none too gently.

"Yes, but that's just the thing," John replied, "I'm not sure he is."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Trying to remain calm, John continued. "What if…what if…Sherlock was more clever than any of us knew? What if he…pretended to die in order to beat Moriarty?"

"John…I know you want Sherlock to be alive…"

"He is alive."

"You saw him jump."

"Yes, yes, I did. But I didn't see him land."

"John…"

"Sherlock knew he had to be dead in order to stop Moriarty. He made it happen. Do you doubt he could? You remember what he was like."

"I remember. Past tense. Sherlock's dead, John. We were at the funeral. We saw the coffin go in the grave."

"An empty coffin."

Lestrade sighed and John felt his tension in a long pause over the phone. "John, I know it's hard to accept, but Sherlock's gone and he's not coming back."

"This isn't about me not accepting that he's gone, it's about me knowing, with absolute certainty that he's not."

"How? How do you know?"

John was careful here. He didn't want to freak Lestrade out too much. "I just do. Can you trust me?"

"This isn't about trust."

"If you open the coffin, you'll find out for yourself that he's not in there."

Another sigh. Lestrade continued, "let's say I was crazy enough to get a crew out there to dig up the grave of one of London's least popular men. And let's say, rhetorically, that there was no body. Absence of a body doesn't necessarily mean he's alive."

"If you dig up the coffin, he'll come back."

"Then that's the last thing I'm doing. If he's really out there and hiding then he's got a reason for it and maybe we're all better off going forward as things are."

"I'm not better off. I'm…I'm not moving forward at all. I can't. Because the best friend, the truest friend I have ever had, is trapped in the shadows and if you don't help me, I'll never see him again, I'll never be whole and I'll never be alive, no matter how many years I might live." John was trembling with the power of this admission. He knew his only choice was to throw himself on the mercy of this good man, who had already lost so much because of Sherlock. "Greg, you know he never lied to you. You know that he wasn't what the press made him out to be. He helped you. You worked alongside him. I swear to you on my life that he's alive and he needs your help. I need your help. I know you've only just gotten back your rank and I'm asking you to risk it all again, and it isn't fair. But what's happened to Sherlock isn't fair. He's done so much for me and I need your help to bring him back. So I'm begging. I'm begging, Greg. Please help me and I swear to you, you won't regret it. Because Sherlock will be back, helping you with your cases, pissing you off, being an irritating dick, just like he's meant to be."

John felt as though he'd just betrayed his very British-ness by expressing himself so boldly, but he had nothing else to offer and nothing else was likely to move Lestrade to aid his insane task. He caught his breath as he waited for Lestrade's decision, knowing how much hung in the balance. His whole future with Sherlock by his side. Sherlock coming back to 221B Baker Street, taking over the kitchen, playing the violin at all hours and acting like a petulant child on days without a case. God, he wanted that so much, it make him ache. But the longer the silence deepened, the less likely that the Detective Inspector would acquiesce, the longer the odds of a real reunion with Sherlock would ever occur. The seconds ticked by, each more excruciating. There was no way. No way Lestrade was going to dig up the most reviled man – dead or alive – in all of London. No chance that this was going to happen or that John would ever see Sherlock any time soon. If he couldn't bring up the coffin, then Sherlock's grand plan to reveal himself to the world and spring the trap on Moran would fail. John knew Sherlock couldn't and wouldn't try again. It would be too risky for John.

The knowledge that he had lost his best chance to get Sherlock back hit him hard and John drew a sad, shuddering breath, and hung his head as tears began to prick his eyes. He was about to apologize to Lestrade for bothering him, when he finally heard from the voice on the other end of the line. "Alright, let's dig the bastard up," Lestrade sighed.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock's gravesite had become an oasis for John, a place of comfort in an otherwise unfriendly city. Obviously it had been painful for him to visit the grave, particularly in the first couple of months after the fall, but still he came every week. Could he tell you why he had started this weekly ritual? Probably not. Duty, possibly? Some sort of desire to demonstrate that he still believed in Sherlock Holmes, that he was a loyal friend, despite the rage of the public and the press? However it had started, it had become John's most cherished part of the week. He came every Sunday, hell or high water (and he'd faced high water more than once, as well as snow, sleet, astronomical heat and a very buggy spring). After 18 months of Sundays, he knew why he continued to make the pilgrimage. Because seeing those letters on the gleaming black marble felt like coming home. The grave of Sherlock Holmes was the only place in London where John felt whole.

But not today. Today he was at the grave for a much different reason. And this time, he wasn't alone. A quick scan of the area revealed at least a dozen police officers, four cemetery workers, two hearse drivers and three officials from the Medical Examiner's office, one of whom was Molly's boss. She had signed the death certificate and released Sherlock's body for burial. If he wasn't in this coffin, which John knew he wasn't, things could get rough for her. One cemetery worker was operating a backhoe, and another was on some other sort of machinery, possibly a crane? He wasn't certain, but it looked like it was built for extracting something. The roar of the two machines filled the air, pierced only by their beeps whenever they maneuvered backwards.

John felt an incredible tension in the air and he knew Lestrade must be feeling it as well, because he was barking orders to everyone who passed by, regardless of whether the listener was under his command or not. John checked his watch for the millionth time. The sun was lowering in the horizon and there was less than an hour until 6 p.m., the time by which Sherlock had told John that his coffin must be opened. Still, the grave was not touched.

"You don't have the proper permits, Detective Inspector," shouted the man who John took to be the cemetery's overseer.

"Do I look like I give a shit about permits, man? Dig up this grave or I'll be digging one for you!" John had to give it to Lestrade, the man knew how to motivate a person. Giving up, the cemetery overseer gave the command and the man on the backhoe began to excavate the grave of Sherlock Holmes.

John watched as the machines tore at the earth, making light work of the six feet of earth covering Sherlock's casket. There had been days at the cemetery when John had imagined digging up the grave (he knew this was a bit crazy and quite morbid, but that's what grief did to a person). He'd imagined being able to just hold Sherlock, stroke his hand, see his face. Those ridiculous cheekbones. Obviously, those were insane imaginings, but so what? Imagining had made him feel a bit better, at least for a moment.

His train of thought was interrupted. "The press are here," Lestrade said, pointing to the entrance of the cemetery, "rotten buggers." John saw several cameras set up and three news trucks readying for more sensational reporting on Sherlock's affairs. Sherlock Holmes continued to sell papers and drive business even a year and a half after his death, so obviously something as salacious as the excavation of his grave was going to be big news.

"How did they find out?" John asked, bewildered. "I thought we were keeping it secret."

"You know how the world is nowadays, John," Lestrade said, gesturing around. "A couple of these blokes probably tweeted about it."

John hoped that Sherlock was prepared for this information to go very viral, very quickly. He began to wonder if he was prepared, if he was really ready to go into battle with Moran. John knew the hitman would be very interested to know Sherlock's grave was empty and if Moran got definitive proof that Sherlock was alive, John would be a marked man. John felt a prickling sensation at the back of his neck. Was Moran watching him now? If the coffin came up empty, would Moran pull the trigger and not wait to find out whether or not Sherlock was alive? "I hope to hell you know what you're doing, Sherlock," John whispered to himself.

Lestrade leaned closer to John and whispered, "so, what do you think it is?"

"Pardon?"

"In the coffin? There must be something in there, if not Sherlock. Sand bags or weights of some sort, something to make the pallbearers feel as though they were burying a man, right?"

Lestrade was indeed right. There must be something in that coffin, but knowing Sherlock, he doubted it would be something as benign as sandbags.

The man on the crane had gotten the coffin out of the grave he slowly lowered it to the ground. Even though John knew that Sherlock wasn't in the casket, it still gave him chills to see it again. Almost as if the grief John felt when it had been lowered in the ground was returning. God, this was stressful.

"Alright, boys," Lestrade said grimly, moving to the coffin. "Let's open 'er up."

A motley group of police, cemetery workers and medical examiners took a place around the edges of the casket. Lestrade looked to John before proceeding. "John? You want to step away or do you want to open it with us?"

John was shaking, but he moved toward the coffin, and took a place next to Lestrade. He was at the head of the casket, where Sherlock's beautiful, brilliant head was supposed to be lying for all eternity. He took a deep breath and placed his hands on the coffin.

Lestrade led the men. "Alright, on three. One. Two. Three." Together they lifted and there were so many men and all were pulling with such force that it seemed as though the lid of the coffin almost flew off without effort. Heart beating wildly, John looked into Sherlock Holmes' coffin and saw a perfectly preserved body lying so peacefully inside. The body of a man John recognized immediately. The body of James Moriarty.

At the same moment, at the British Museum, the Head Curator of the Ancient Egyptian Department was concluding a talk about an enormous stone sarcophagus. In the audience were dozens of top scholars from around the world, all waiting for the opening of the beautiful sarcophagus. The proceedings were being live streamed to classrooms and museums around the world.

The curator was drawing to a close, "found in a little explored section of the Valley of the Kings, this sarcophagus hasn't been opened in over 3,000 years. Well, ladies and gentlemen, let us wait no longer! Open the lid and let us see the wonders of the ancient world!" With a flourish, the curator stepped back and gave a signal to a crane operator, who used his machine to slowly lift the massive stone cover. The ropes tightened and there was suddenly separation between the lid and the body of the sarcophagus, and the crane operator swung the lid over to the side. The tomb was open. The audience leaned forward in anticipation, hoping to see a mummy wrapped in splendor or other magnificent golden treasures. The curator took a step forward and peered into the tomb, as a figure, all in black, rose from its depths. There were shocked cries and screams from the crowd, and the curator stumbled back in fright, shouting, "my god, what is it?"

The tall, thin figure turned toward the crowd, his pale face looking eerily gaunt in the cold museum light. A woman fainted. You couldn't blame her, the figure looked like the very spirit of death. But he was no spirit and he was not dead. He was a man and he was very much alive. With a smile, Sherlock Holmes swung his right leg over the side of the sarcophagus and hopped down. "Oh, don't mind me, curator," Holmes said. "I was just having a bit of a kip." With that, he sauntered out of the room, tossing his scarf over his shoulder and leaving a stunned crowd in his wake.


	11. Chapter 11

Making his grand exit from the British Museum, Sherlock Holmes felt a bit…exposed. It wasn't surprising, actually. He had been actively hiding his identity for 18 long months. Much of that time had been spent abroad, working in the shadows to dismantle Moriarty's network and disable the three snipers tasked with killing the three people Sherlock cared about the most. He had ensured that two snipers were effectively out of commission – only Sebastian Moran stood between Sherlock and his old life at 221b Baker Street, where he would once again be happily nestled in with his dear John. He realized as he hailed a cab outside the museum that it was the first London cab he'd called as himself in a year and a half and again he had the sensation of feeling naked, despite being fully clothed. Apparently it was going to take time to remember what it felt like to be himself.

These thoughts and others were streaming through his busy mind in the seconds it took for a battered taxi to pull up to him. A blur of images from this busy day flashed through his brain: securing the cooperation of the crane operator at the museum who had helped him wait (aided by a couple of canisters of oxygen) in the empty sarcophagus before the event (of course it was empty, there were obvious signs that grave robbers had already opened it thousands of years ago, what was wrong with that curator?); sending an anonymous text to the press that there would be an excavation that afternoon of the grave of London's most reviled consulting detective; and a hasty phone call to one Miss Molly Hooper.

At the center of all the images and thoughts, plans and questions swirling in his mind was a single face – that of John Watson. At this moment, the world was learning that Sherlock Holmes was very much alive. If Sherlock was feeling naked and exposed, it must be nothing to what John must be feeling, knowing he now had a target plastered on his head. Sherlock knew that Sebastian Moran would immediately begin to hunt John, methodically, relentlessly, until the job was done, until John Watson was dead. As he stepped into the cab, Sherlock felt a cold wave of horror sweep down his body from head to toe. The thought of John being injured, being killed, almost paralyzed Sherlock. He knew there was great risk involved in his plan, and that John was the one bearing the risk. So, there was no room for error. Everything must go to plan. Moran must be neutralized before he had a chance to get close to John.

Sherlock checked his watch, it was just after 6 p.m. John and Lestrade should have the casket open by now. It was almost time to send the next text, the one to John. His fingers twitched as he calculated the timing of events. Sherlock needed John to disappear, but until that moment, John needed to act as if he was completely unaware of the threat to his life. Sherlock needed Moran to think it was going to be easy to get to John, he wanted the sniper to let his guard down for a moment. That was all Sherlock would need, just a moment to take care of the threat to the life of the person he loved most in the world. Sherlock hoped John had gotten the message he'd left at 221b Baker Street before dawn this morning. It wasn't a direction or an instruction, just a little note that might make things easier in the coming moments when John would need to wade once again into war.

The moment that the body of James Moriarty was discovered in the coffin that was supposed to house the body of Sherlock Holmes, John knew all hell was about to break loose. And it had. Looking around him only moments later, John found himself standing in the midst of utter chaos. His sense memories were kicking in, recalling the madness and mayhem of the battlefield. This wasn't Afghanistan, it was a cemetery on the outskirts of London, but the maelstrom of raised voices, relentless sirens, ongoing drone of machinery and low-flying news choppers were giving him flashbacks to the worst of the battles he faced. All that was missing were the flying bullets, he thought wryly, at least for the time being.

Lestrade and, in fact, several of the men gathered around the casket, had immediately identified the body as that of James Moriarty, shouting his name and jumping back in shock and fear. Personally, John was most astounded at the state of the remains. There was very little decay; it looked as though the corpse had been embalmed to within an inch of its life (which John realized was a strange thing to say about a dead man). It was as if someone knew well in advance that this particular body was going to be dug up and they wanted to ensure that it could still be identified.

In between barking orders to have the coffin closed and put into the back of the hearse for a trip to the morgue, Lestrade pulled John aside and began a blistering series of questions. "What the hell, John? Did you know about this? Is this supposed to be some kind of insane trick? Why is Jim Moriarty's body in Sherlock's coffin? What the hell is going on?"

John threw his hands up and pled ignorance. "I have no idea why Moriarty's in there," he said. "I didn't even know he was dead."

"God damn it!" Lestrade looked like a volcano ready to spew. For several moments he paced in tight circles, hands on hips, with only short ragged snorts coming out of his nose in lieu of language. "Well, you were right about one thing. Sherlock Holmes is not buried in that grave. So, where the hell is he?"

"I have no idea," John replied, a bit tense. He'd expected Sherlock to turn up after the casket was opened. John scanned the cemetery, which was growing more crowded by the moment. But there was no Sherlock to be found.

"Well, he's going to have a hell of a lot to answer for if he ever has the guts to show his face again," Lestrade fumed.

At that moment, a young police ran up to Lestrate waving an iPhone. "Detective Inspector! You have to see this," the young copper declared.

Lestrade was in no mood for niceties. "What the hell is it?"

"It's Sherlock Holmes!" Holding out the phone, the young man hit play and started a video filmed at the British Museum only moments before. John and Lestrade watched the tiny screen, rapt as Sherlock stepped out of the stone sarcophagus and back into the limelight.

Lestrade looked as if all the blood had drained from his body. "Bloody hell. Where is he now?"

The young police officer replied sheepishly, "no idea, sir. He just walked out of the Museum and into the street, best we can tell."

"Try and find him," Lestrade shouted, "and be quick about it! I want him brought to me the moment you get him!" Lestrade pulled John away from the grave and the growing group of onlookers. "John, be honest with me. What's this about?"

John took a deep breath and wiped his face with his hand, trying to pull himself together in order to be as coherent and succinct as possible. "The reason he…the day Sherlock fell…Moriarty told him he had to die if he wanted to save our lives, me and you and Mrs. Hudson," John said, the words tumbling out. "There were three gunman, one for us each. Moriarty gave Sherlock a choice, either jump or we would all die. And so he jumped. But he's brilliant, right? So, he knew he would be forced to jump, he knew he'd have to die in order to live. Sherlock worked with Molly Hooper from the morgue to stage the whole thing. She's the only one who knew. He couldn't come back until he found a way to get the three gunmen out of the way. Now, he's gotten rid of your sniper and Mrs. Hudson's sniper, and there's only one left," John panted, almost out of breath. "Only one sniper he couldn't flush out."

"Yours," Lestrade said, horrified.

"Mine," John answered. "Now the world knows that Sherlock Holmes is alive and so does the sniper. He'll come out now."

"So, what? You're just bait?"

"Essentially, yeah," John replied. "This is the only way Sherlock can get rid of this guy, once and for all."

Lestrade was gobsmacked. "Well, what if he has a gun trained on you right now? What the hell are you supposed to do now that Sherlock's back?"

"I have absolutely no idea," said John.

At that moment, John remembered the message he'd seen on the bathroom mirror that morning. He knew it was from Sherlock, who else could it be? It was a secret message, meant just for him, and it was only revealed after John had taken a long, steamy shower. The glass of the mirror was fogged, but Sherlock had used his finger to write a message that shone through the condensation. It wasn't really much help, John though when he saw it. He would have preferred some specific sort of direction or information on a secure location to go after the grave was opened. Instead, there were only two words – "Trust me." John wondered if that was supposed to be helpful.

Suddenly, John heard a chime from his phone. He had a text. It was a miracle he heard the sound above the noise, but he did, somehow, and checked the message. It was from Sherlock. And it was a shock.

John looked up to see the two hearse drivers and one of the medical examiners beginning to slide the casket into a hearse. He turned to Lestrade and said, "I've got to get in that casket."

"What? There's a dead man in there!"

"I know, but Sherlock wants me to get in there. I guess he thinks it's safe. Help me, please!"

Lestrade let out the world's loudest sign and grabbed John's shoulder. "Come on, then," he said, pulling John to the hearse. Just before the doors were beginning to swing closed, Lestrade stopped the driver, who was just about to slam the door shut on the casket.

"Just a second there. We want to do one last quick look at the body, before you take off," Lestrade said, flashing his Detective Inspector badge.

"Yeah, whatever," the driver said, walking to the front of the hearse. "Just close the door when you're done. Don't want him rolling out before I get him to the morgue," the driver chuckled.

John looked at the coffin. Was he really going to slip inside? Was Sherlock going to get him out? How long would he have to be trapped with the body of Jim Moriarty? Again, the message from the mirror flashed through his mind. "Trust me." At this point, John realized he didn't have a choice. John turned to Lestrade, who helped to lift the corner of the casket. John quickly rolled into the coffin, immediately landing on the cold, dead body inside. Lestrade lowered the lid, throwing John into complete darkness. All he could wonder is if he would ever see daylight again.


	12. Chapter 12

The best thing John could say about James Moriarty was that the man was small. (He would have added "dead" to that short list, but at the moment, the dead part was not exactly a positive.) John realized that if Moriarty hadn't been of a small stature (nothing wrong with that), it was unlikely they would both fit inside Sherlock's casket. As it was, the squeeze was very tight - they were stacked one atop the other and John could honestly say that he had never felt more claustrophobic or creeped out in his entire life. His heart pounded as he held his breath and tried not think about the fact that he was stretched across a corpse. "Just hold it together, John," he said to himself, trying to calm his racing heart. "Just breathe," he said and then took a deep breath through his nose. Bad idea he thought, as he gagged on the smell of formaldehyde and death. Moriarty hadn't decayed much, but he still smelled like hell.

"I swear to god, Sherlock, I am punching you in the face the next time I see you," John vowed, only to be startled a moment later by a cheery chirp signaling the receipt of a text. Maneuvering his hand down to his jeans pocket, he was able to free his phone. There was so little room between his head and the lid of the coffin that the phone was so close to John's face he could barely read the screen. A text from Sherlock. One word. "Cozy?" Wanker.

It took John several minutes in the cramped quarters to text back what was surely a horribly misspelled version of "Get me the hell out of here," but Sherlock must have been able to figure it out because John soon received a reply. "Patience." John was flabbergasted. "Patience? I'm crammed in a coffin with a dead guy! I'm sorry I'm not feeling particularly patient right now!" John felt his blood pressure rise, followed quickly by the feeling that he was running out of air and couldn't breathe. He tried to push up to crack the lid a bit and let in some fresh air, but he wasn't able to get enough leverage. Was there enough air? What if he was slowly (or not so slowly) suffocating? John felt his chest constrict and felt his breathing grow even more labored. He realized he was having a panic attack and knew he needed to calm down, but damn if that wasn't a bit hard to do while running out of air trapped in a coffin with a dead man while hiding from a lethal assassin. Hyperventilating wasn't going to make this easier, but he couldn't find a way to make himself calm down. Instead, the panic and fear was growing and John was feeling more and more desperate with each ragged, painful breath.

There was another chime. Frantically, John brought the phone up to his face and struggled to make out the message. "See you soon." Oh. (Big breath.) God. (A second big, cleansing breath.) Right. Somehow, those words from Sherlock helped John focus and clear his mind. There was a reason he was putting himself through this insanity and, if he pulled himself together, there would be a major reward. Sherlock Holmes back at 221b. "Focus on that, John," he said to himself. As his breathing normalized, John imagined his flatmate stretched out long on the sofa, playing the violin at all hours of the night, or effectively turning the kitchen into a hazardous waste area. Oh, god, there was nothing that John wanted more than to see him soon.

Molly Hooper used her key card to sneak into the morgue. She hadn't been at work for almost two weeks, ever since John Watson had tried to get her to share what she knew about the death of Sherlock Holmes. A bit prone to nervousness, Molly was even more on edge than usual tonight. She wanted to get in and out without being seen by any of her colleagues. There were going to be difficult questions to face in the coming days about why she signed a death certificate for a man who wasn't dead, but she didn't have time for answers right now. Because right now, she had a date with the dead man.

Well, the non-dead dead man. And not a date, more like a meeting. A secret meeting, like others she'd been to over the past year and a half. Although to the rest of the world he was dead and buried, Sherlock Holmes was still an ongoing part of Molly's life. Through clandestine channels the managed to communicate regularly and they'd met on a number of occasions. (One of Molly's regular "duties" was to report to Sherlock on the general health and well-being of John.) During these meetings, Sherlock was always wearing a very elaborate disguise of some sort. The one she recalled most vividly (and most frequently) was the sultan disguise – she'd rather liked Sherlock in the long flowing robe. For weeks after she'd fantasized about him riding on a camel under a shockingly blue sky. As she flipped on the lights in the morgue, she wondered what disguise Sherlock would be wearing today.

Molly screamed as she saw the dead man, sitting in a chair, his legs up on the desk. "God, Sherlock! You scared me to death!"

"Lucky we're at the morgue, then. No work at all to get you up on a table," Sherlock said with a smirk, rising and holding out his arms. "Hello, Molly."

Molly crossed and gave him a quick hug. "I expected to not be able to recognize you."

"I'm myself again, Molly," he said, "for better or worse."

"Better, definitely. I mean, it's good. That you're back. It's very good," she stammered.

Sherlock looked at Molly out of the corner of his eye and said, quietly. "they'll come down on you for your part in this."

"I know."

"They'll likely be an inquest," Sherlock continued. "You could go to prison."

"I'm not afraid," she said, her voice strong. Sherlock felt the echo bounce off the wall nearest him and wash over his skin.

"I'm sorry I've put you in this position, Molly. Terribly sorry."

Molly's chin tilted up as she spoke, "I did what was right. If I have to pay for that, well, it will be my honor, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded, accepting with grace the gift she was bestowing on him. He was moved by the bravery of this woman. A woman he had never really seen until he'd desperately needed her, 18 months ago. He was only still alive because of her, and if he was somehow able to resume his life again, it would be due to the force of nature that was Molly Hooper.

There was a honk from outside the rolling garage door. The hearse was here. Sherlock looked down at Molly, eyes gleaming, "Well, before they lock us both away for good, let's pull out one last body. What do you say?"

Molly smiled, "for old times' sake!"

Sherlock slid open the garage door. The hearse rolled inside and Sherlock closed the door behind it. The driver stepped out as Sherlock and Molly quickly opened the back hutch. "Hey, wait," said the driver, "the coppers told me I wasn't to let no one touch the dead guy."

Sherlock slid the coffin out of the car and onto a cart. "No worries, there. I don't give a damn about the dead man. I just want the live one."

He gave the lid a tug and John Watson sat up, gasping for breath, shielding his eyes, which were blinded by the bright light after so long in complete darkness.

The driver stumbled backwards, screaming. "He's alive! Oh, my god! He's alive!" The man scampered from the room, clutching his chest.

John blinked, trying to restore his vision. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock smiled. "John." Sherlock grasped his friend's arms and pulled him out of the coffin. John stumbled into Sherlock, his legs wobbly and cramped. He grabbed onto Sherlock's coat to hold himself up and then the emotion of seeing his dear friend again swept him up further. John pulled Sherlock into an enormous hug and clung there, savoring this moment. After a bit, Sherlock's arms encircled John. Finally, Sherlock said, "John, when did you become such a hugger?"

John laughed and pulled back. "It's so good to see you again." Sherlock looked into his friend's eyes. It was clear this deep feeling was mutual. Just then, Molly made a slight coughing noise to let John know she was there.

John was absolutely shocked. "Molly! Where have you been? You sneaky bugger, you knew all about this and never told me!"

Molly said apologetically, "I'm sorry, John. I wanted to tell you, believe me, I did. But Sherlock swore me to secrecy."

John grabbed her hand and brought it to his heart. "I know, Molly. And thank you, for all you did to help him. You're an amazing woman, Molly Hooper," John said, cementing his declaration with a kiss on her cheek. Molly beamed.

John turned to Sherlock. "Okay, Sherlock. The whole world knows you're alive. James Moriarty is in your casket and there's a trained killer waiting to put a bullet in my brain. On a brighter note, Molly's back and we're all together. So, what's next?"

Sherlock Holmes smiled. "Well, John. Now things get interesting."


	13. Chapter 13

_Author's Note: Sorry for the delay! It's so annoying when life gets in the way of writing Sherlock fan fiction! Thanks for reading and please let me know if you're enjoying the story!_

Sherlock had just informed John that things were about to get interesting. John's lips pursed as he thought back on recent events. First, John had discovered that his flatmate wasn't actually dead, but had actually fakes his death and remained in hiding in order to protect John from the trained assassin with a mission to kill him. After digging up Sherlock's coffin, John had hidden inside it WITH the dead body of Jim Moriarty, the lunatic that had masterminded this entire bizarre series of events. And NOW Sherlock thought it was finally going to get interesting. John wasn't sure he could take much more interesting and he was quite longing for a boring night in, watching Corrie with a hot cup of tea and a tin of biscuits.

Sherlock's voice snapped John out of his daydream. "Did Lestrade see you get into the coffin?"

"Uh, yeah, he helped me in."

"Excellent. He'll slow the rest of the force down a bit and buy us a bit of time. But we need to move fast," Sherlock said, almost breathless with excitement.

"He also saw you busted out of that Egyptian tomb," John continued. "And how, exactly, did you do that?"

"Later, John. Molly, is there any chance you can smuggle us to the garage for the ambulances? I've got a driver waiting."

Molly's brows knit together in confusion. "Smuggle?"

Sherlock reached out to grasp the edge of one of the carts used to transport bodies to the autopsy table. "On one of these, perhaps?"

John's hands started waving in protest. "Now hang on, I've had enough of dead bodies for the day."

Sherlock countered, "better to play dead than to be dead, don't you think, John?"

John couldn't argue with this logic. Sherlock began examining the cart, which was two-tiered. "John and I could both ride on this, Molly, one above, draped in a sheet, and one hiding below. Do you think you could push it with both of us on it?"

Molly was a small woman, but she was fierce and very determined. "I know I could."

"Wonderful," Sherlock said with a smile. "We just need a toe tag, if you don't mind."

"Right away," she said, retreating to her desk.

"We're going to leave in an ambulance?" John asked.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow in response. "Everyone assumes ambulances only bring people to the hospital, no one stops to think that they can also take people away."

John swallowed. "Is he watching us already, do you think? Moran?" He tried not to sound too terrified.

Sherlock stopped busying himself with the cart and the sheet, and calmly peered into John's eyes. "I don't know where Moran is, John. I never did for certain. Trying to pin him down is like catching a puff of smoke with your hand. He might not even be in London for all I know and I doubt he was watching you today. But he'll come now, hard and fast, we can be sure. That's why I'm taking you off the board."

"What?"

"This game of chess between Moriarty and me should be over, but Moran keeps playing. So, I'm taking you off the board. He won't find you, I promise." Sherlock reached out and grabbed John's hand. John was startled by the gesture, but didn't pull away. Sherlock's hand was a bit rough, but it radiated warmth. John thought it felt a bit like one of those pocket warmers that you squish to keep your hands warm in the winter. But there was the throb of a pulse, too, strong and alive. John felt as though energy were being channeled into his hand, up his arm and straight to his heart. Sherlock squeezed as he spoke, looking deeply into John's face. "It's just you and I now, John. To the bitter end."

John nodded. There was really nothing more to be said. Their hands tightened and for a moment, neither man let go.

Finally, John cleared his throat and started helping Sherlock with the cart. "So, in this game of chess, you're the queen used to draw out your opponent?" John smiled at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes in response.

"It's not a good metaphor, as far as metaphors go. But all that matters is that you're off the board. He won't be able to get you."

"But you just said that we won't be separated. If he finds you, he finds me," John said.

Sherlock smiled. "That's why I'm taking a page from Moriarty's playbook. There's soon to be more than one Sherlock Holmes in London!"

John was confused. "Hang on…"

"Not now, John. We need to get out of here before Lestrade's gang of half-wits descend with their usual levels of idiocy." John's phone began to buzz. As soon as he pulled it out of his pocket, Sherlock reached for it, saying, "It's probably for me." John passed the phone over and Sherlock answered.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade. Long time no chat. How are things?"

A stunned Lestrade stammered out a response. "Sherlock Holmes. As I live and breathe."

"I'm guessing the surprising thing is that I live and breathe, Detective Inspector."

"Yes, it is quite a shock."

"I assume that John explained enough of the situation that you follow, Lestrade," Sherlock said.

"He's told me a bit, but I was particularly surprised when I opened your coffin, only to find the body of Jim Moriarty."

"Of course. You wonder if I killed him. Hold on, here's Miss Hooper, who conducted the autopsy on dear departed Jim," Sherlock responded, passing the phone to Molly, who had just returned with the toe tag.

"Hello? Greg, is this you?"

"Molly! I'm sorry you've been dragged into this mess," Lestrade said.

"Oh, it's no trouble. Well, I'll probably lose my job, but other than that…," Molly trailed off, noticing Sherlock and John staring at her with concern.

"You know how Moriarty died?"

"Suicide. I'll send the report to you right away."

Lestrade was agitated. "You're certain?"

"Absolutely. And Sherlock saw him do it, so there's an eyewitness," Molly added.

"I'm not sure Sherlock's testimony will be particularly valuable at this point," Lestrade conveyed. "Might actually do more harm than good. Send me a report that doesn't mention him, if you can."

"Will do," Molly replied.

There was a moment before Lestrade continued in a hushed voice. "You think there's any chance in hell we'll be able to get 'em both through this, Molly?"

"There's always a chance, Greg," she said, handing the phone back to Sherlock.

Sherlock spoke quickly. "Detective Inspector, I'll be in touch."

"No, wait! I need to see you, Sherlock."

"Not yet."

"The Superintendent wants me to bring you in," Lestrade said with a sigh, all but certain that the consulting detective would never go along with this "request."

Sherlock's voice started steady, but ended in a tremor, belying deep underlying emotion. "I cannot come in. There is a man, a very dangerous man, hunting John. And he will not stop, will not rest, until John lies dead. If you think I'll let you bring me in until I have stopped him from…, completing his mission, you don't remember me very well, Detective Inspector."

"I do remember you, Sherlock, vividly" Lestrade answered. "I know exactly what's at stake. John's my friend, too, if you'll recall. So, tell me what I can do to help."

"It's too risky for you," Sherlock replied.

"I don't care about that. I want to save John."

Sherlock let this sink in. Molly and Lestrade cared about him and they cared about John. His throat felt tight as he spoke. "Keep the police at bay for as long as you can. I'll be in touch about what happens next."

"Will do," Lestrade said. "And Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Glad you're back amongst the living."

Again that tightness in the throat until Sherlock could say, "thank you."

The three friends stood in silence for a few seconds as Sherlock hung up and passed the phone back to John. Sherlock took a deep breath and then went into action, pulling off his shoes and socks, and rolling up his trousers to above his calves. "John, turn your phone on silent. Corpses don't carry cell phones, generally speaking." Sherlock climbed atop the cadaver cart and laid out flat on his back. "Molly," he said, passing her the toe tag, "if you would do the honors?"

She slipped the tag over his big toe and then joined John in shaking out the sheet so that it covered Sherlock entirely, except for his bare feet. Molly held up a corner of the sheet so that John could scamper onto the lower shelf. Just before he went under, he gave her hand a squeeze. "You're a good egg, Molly Hooper," he said, sadly and sweetly.

With her cargo loaded, she began pushing the heavy cart through the morgue and out the double doors. Molly had to put her back into it in order to get any momentum, but soon the cart was rolling smoothly down the halls of the hospital's lowest floor. They were almost past the incinerator room and nearly to the ambulance garage when Molly saw her boss at the end of the hall. She tried to turn back, but he'd seen her. It was too late to do anything but keep rolling forward.

Her boss, a thin, pale man whose long, bony hands always reminded Molly of the ghost of Christmas Future, stood directly in front of her cart, forcing her to stop. "Miss Hooper! I thought you were still on leave," he said, in a high-pitched voice.

"No, sir, just got back today."

"Well, I'm surprised you bothered. In case you haven't seen the news, Sherlock Holmes, a man you certified as dead, turned up at the British Museum today."

"He did, sir?"

"How do you explain that, Miss Hooper?"

"I dunno, sir. He seemed dead to me," was the best she could come up with.

"Well, he wasn't dead. What _is_ dead, however, is your career," he sneered. For the first time, he noticed the body on the cart in front of him. "What is this?"

"A deceased, sir. From a posh family. Drugs, but they're trying to keep it quiet. They hired an ambulance to take him to their estate in the country. Sister's a vicar or something. They're waiting for me…" she trailed off.

"Get him out of here, then," he grunted. "I'll deal with your inability to tell the dead from the living first thing tomorrow, do you understand?"

"Yes, sir." Molly began to push her cart toward the ambulance again, but was stopped once more.

"Miss Hooper?"

"Yes, sir?"

"If you see that horrible Sherlock Holmes again, notify the police immediately!"

Molly smiled as she reached the waiting ambulance. "Absolutely, sir."


	14. Chapter 14

John had been shot in Afghanistan. He'd seen young men and women die in battle. He had faced deep depression after the war and again, after watching his best friend plummet off the top of a roof. But John was fairly certain that he'd never faced a day quite as challenging as today. In the last four hours, John had been smushed inside a coffin with a dead body, rolled out of the morgue on a cadaver cart, taken by ambulance to a cat food factory (a smell which he still couldn't get out of his nose), where he was thrown in a bin full of dirty uniforms into a laundry lorrie and then driven across London by a madman (Sherlock). There had been a series of stops along the way (glue factory, beer distributor, umbrella factory), all of which involved changing vehicles and clothing, but none of which involved a cup of tea or a morsel of food (except the soup kitchen they had sped through, but Sherlock refused him a moment for even a crust of bread.) Now John found himself cold, starving and lost somewhere deep within the cavernous bowels of the London sewer system.

"So, when you said, 'we're going through the sewers,' you literally meant it," John said to his back-from-the-dead flatmate. Sherlock was busy putting his weight into turning a gigantic, rusty wheel that lead to a pipe that seemed big enough to walk through, should Sherlock actually be able to get it open. "Yes, and if you help me instead of asking pointless questions, this would go much easier," Sherlock snapped, wiping a grimy hand on the sleeve of his jacket, trying to get a better grip.

"There's got to be a better way," John mumbled as he joined Sherlock on the wheel.

"Did you want to check into a bed and breakfast? Perhaps

"What about our flat? We could hide in plain sight," John suggested.

"Do you want to be killed?"

John didn't give up. "You're the one who said Moran might not even be in London. Maybe we've got a night before he arrives and it would be in our best interests to tuck in to a nice meal and get a good night's sleep before…tomorrow."

"Moran has never taken a job more than a 12 hour flight from London," said Sherlock, clearly annoyed that he needed to spell it out. "The video of me rising from the dead went viral four hours ago. Let's say it took him two hours to get to an airport and on a plane. We've got 10 hours at the absolute outside until Moran is hot on our tail, probably quite less. In fact, the likelihood is that he's in London now or will be in the next two hours. So, no, I don't think we should pop out for a nice dinner or a cup of tea or bunk at our flat, because right now we're safe, and that's going to have to be good enough for tonight. Now, push!"

With one final heave, John and Sherlock were able to turn the wheel, opening the door to the enormous pipe that led god knows where. Well, likely to some sewage, John thought to himself. Damn. Sherlock gestured for John to proceed him through the enormous round door. "After you."

John was about to step inside when he had a memory of a moment in a film. "This is like one of those doors to the hobbit houses in 'Lord of the Rings,' don't you think?" Sherlock looked at him with a blank stare. John shook his head and passed through the hole and into the tunnel. "Never mind."

Sherlock followed John, pulling the door behind them. John got out his phone, turned on the App that served as a torch and lit the way. "Drains the battery quickly, but hopefully we're not going too far," John said.

"No, it's not far," Sherlock replied.

They walked for 10 minutes until the tunnel suddenly opened up to a large space, 50 meters high. There was a bit of light streaming through grates in the ceiling, but John wasn't sure where the light was coming from. "Street lamps. We're under Shaftsbury Avenue," Sherlock answered, never having heard the question. "There's an area over here that's safe and clean. Follow me."

John could see a couple of fabric panels hanging in a corner up ahead. "What, is this some homeless person's camp? Is someone living rough here?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied. "We are."

Sherlock pushed the thin curtain aside and stepped into the shielded area, then flicked on the switch of a small lantern. With the light shining from inside, it looked like a magical blanket fort and if John had been 9-years-old, it might have been great fun to have adventures there. But he was a grown man, and this wasn't a game. He pulled back the curtain and crouched to peek inside. There wasn't much to see, really. A bed area, which just consisted of several layers of worn blankets and old sleeping bags. And then a little area with a few jugs of water, two mugs and wait, was that a tea kettle and gas cooker? "Can that make tea?"

Sherlock had already started to make himself comfortable, throwing off his over coat and rolling up his sleeves. Now he turned to the tiny "kitchen" and lit a match to the cooker. "Yes, John. It can make tea."

John felt a big proper smile come over his face as he squeezed into the fort and took up a spot on the "bed" area. It was actually much squishier and more comfortable than it appeared. John kicked off his shoes, threw off his jacket and collapsed on his back with a huge sigh of relief. "I almost don't care if Moran comes tonight, as long as I've had a cup of tea and five minutes laying here like this, I'll feel I've lived a good life."

"So, you don't care about the Hob Nobs, then?"

John sat straight up. "Hob Nobs? Give 'em here!"

Sherlock tossed John the roll of biscuits, a relaxed smile on his face. It was a look John hadn't seen since…well, definitely before the fall. Not able to wait until the kettle boiled, John peeled open the biscuits and crammed one in his mouth before offering the package to Sherlock with raised eyebrows.

"I'll wait. You go ahead," Sherlock said, pleased to see something so small make John so happy.

"If you've got a take away Pad Thai in there somewhere, I'll be over the moon," John said with a laugh.

"No Pad Thai, but I can toast you a slice of bread in the morning."

"Deal." John began munching on another biscuit before he started in on the questions. "How did you know this place was down here? Did you have one of your homeless network set it up for you?"

"I knew it was here because I put it here. I lived here for a bit while I was…gone," Sherlock explained. "I've recently restocked on tea and biscuits, knowing that you might have to camp here for a night and that I'd never hear the end of it if you couldn't have your 'good night' cuppa."

The kettle whistled and Sherlock poured the hot water into two decrepit looking mugs. But John noted the tea bags were from Harrod's. He'd had Harrod's tea many years before when Harry had sent him a tin for Christmas while he was stationed in Afghanistan. It was absolutely marvelous and he couldn't wait to take a sip.

"Here you are, John," Sherlock said, gently passing the least-cracked mug to John.

"Thanks, mate," John responded, unable to remember a time when he'd been more grateful for a cup of tea. "Cheers." The two men sat on the bedding, munching and sipping for a few minutes, letting the chaos of the day wash away.

"It's actually pretty nice down here. I can see why you like it."

"I didn't say I like it," Sherlock whispered. "But it does seem a bit more pleasant tonight than usual."

"Can we stay here a bit? A couple of days? Just to catch our breath?"

"I'm afraid not," Sherlock said. "Tomorrow, it begins."

"What begins?"

"The war. We're going into battle, John. We have to be prepared," Sherlock said in measured tones as he sized up his friend.

John knew what Sherlock wanted to hear. "I'm ready."

"Are you? He won't fight fair. Moran's strategy will be to use what he perceives as our weakness against us."

"Our weakness?" John cocked his head and looked at Sherlock with a curious expression. "You mean, each other?"

"He knows I'll sacrifice my life for yours, and he believes you'll do the same for me. At some point, he'll get to you with a message that you can save my life. All you have to do is sacrifice yourself."

"There's the bloody chess metaphor again," John groaned

Sherlock grabbed John's arm and brought him up close. "Don't play his game, John. Promise me you won't let him draw you out using me," Sherlock begged, his voice ragged.

"I can't promise that."

"You must!"

"Sherlock, I can't put my life before yours," John said softly, but without hesitation. "No more than you can put yours before mine. But I don't want either of us to have to sacrifice ourselves. We can both make it through this, can't we? Because if after all this, all we've been through, if we're not both back at Baker Street, then it's all for nothing."

Sherlock stared at his friend for a moment, then reached out and grabbed John's hand. "If you promise not to let him separate us, then we can make it back to Baker Street together."

John wanted that for both of them so much, that in that moment he did something he thought he'd never do to Sherlock – he lied. "I promise," John said, doing his best to keep his eyes steady.

"Good. Well, let's get some sleep then," Sherlock said, taking the mugs and clearing off the bed. There was a jug of water to use to wash their faces and brush their teeth. And Sherlock had spare clothing, including pajamas, so John was feeling pretty refreshed when he finally crawled into the makeshift bed. A moment later, Sherlock took the other side. The bed was small and it was cold, so John snuggled a bit closer to Sherlock, grateful for the warmth of another body. As his mind played back the conversation with Sherlock, John realized that Sebastian Moran was an incredibly smart man. Because Sherlock _was_ John's weakness and there was no way he could let Sherlock be harmed, not if John could do anything to stop it, even if it meant sacrificing his own life.

As if he could hear John's thoughts, Sherlock reached an arm across his flatmate and pulled him closer. "Stop thinking and start sleeping, John. You need your rest," Sherlock said in a voice that seemed to trail off into the darkness. Here he was, sleeping in a makeshift bed, practically spooning with his flatmate. People would talk, but at that moment, John just didn't care.


	15. Chapter 15

John awoke to an unexpected brightness. As his eyelids opened a sliver, it looked as though the thin cotton panels surrounding the little nest area in which he and Sherlock were sleeping were glowing. But it must be sunlight, John thought, streaming in from somewhere high above. He turned his head to look up at the ceiling of the gigantic room, but he found he couldn't move much, as the still sleeping body of his flatmate was draped across him.

Right, he remembered, Sherlock and I were having a cuddle last night. John laughed silently, thinking about the dozens of times people had assumed he and Sherlock were a couple. God, they would love seeing this. He wasn't gay, but John had to admit that he'd had a better night's sleep wrapped in Sherlock's arms while lying on some old blankets down in the sewers than practically the entire 18 months that Sherlock had been gone. There was something about that he should examine, but later. Right now, he was going to just breathe and enjoy this peaceful, warm, very comforting moment.

"You're awake," came Sherlock's voice, right behind John's right ear.

"Oh! You startled me. I thought you were still sleeping."

"Mmm. Thinking," Sherlock replied.

John turned to face Sherlock and was taken aback by the worry and concern he saw on Sherlock's face. "Thinking about today? Facing Moran?" John could see a wave of terror sweep across his friend's expression and he couldn't help but try and ease his mind. "Sherlock, it's going to be alright. It will. I know you'll figure it out," John said, squeezing his flatmate's shoulder in support and comfort.

Sherlock snorted softly, "you have too much faith in me, John."

"Every day you were gone, through all the crap in the press and the whole world turning their back on you, the thing that kept me going was one thought I kept repeating to myself, over and over. 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes.' I always have and I always will. So tell me your plan and together we'll make it work."

Sherlock slowly peeled his arms away from John and came to a sitting position. "I've realized there's only so much I can do, so many ways I can plan to hide you, but ultimately, you will have to go onto the battlefield alone. There is simply no other way," he said, a catch in his voice.

John sat up at this. He had expected Sherlock would have some sort of elaborate ruse planned that would take Moran out of the picture. But he realized now that was just wishful thinking. There was probably no chance of beating a ruthless killer like Moran without spilling some blood. "Tell me what you're thinking."

Sherlock took a deep breath before responding, then spoke in a clear, fast voice without stopping. "As we discussed last night, Moran knows that either of us would sacrifice our lives for the other. I've been trying to think of ways to prevent that from happening, but I know that no matter what I do, at some point Moran will get to you and ask you to go to a location of his choosing all alone and I know that you'll go. Don't say you won't go, because we both know you will and I understand, John, believe me. But when you go to meet him, Moran will kill you with a shot to the head. Regardless of how many places I hide you or how long you remain hidden, that remains the likely outcome. All roads lead to you dying and Moran walking away because he would determine the time and place, and there would be no way to have counter snipers standing by or police protection for you. Even I probably wouldn't make it there in time. So, what do we know? That Moran will tempt you to come out of hiding and that you will go. And the only person you'll have to protest you is…you. And that's our secret weapon, our ace in the hole. For Moran is used to killing from a distance. He's never had to look a man in the eye or get his hands dirty. And he's never faced anyone like Captain John Watson, of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. You are not only a crack shot, but you've been shot at. Hell, you've been shot. You know how to keep cool when bullets are flying, which is damn lucky, because the bullets are going to fly, but not just Moran's, yours, too, John. Because you're not going to stand there and take it when Moran starts shooting at you, you're going to shoot back. And Moran isn't used to being on the business end of a gun. So, when you're walking out on that battlefield and you can feel his weapon trained on you, don't run, John. Fight back. Do you hear me? Fight him, for me. Fight him to get back home to Baker Street and to finally be free."

Sherlock's chest heaved with the effort and intensity of these words. John was a bit overwhelmed and felt a bit speechless, but thought he should say something. "I'll certainly try," was the best he could do. It didn't seem enough.

Sherlock reached out to John and drew him close with a hand across the side of John's neck and jaw. He gazed intently into John's eyes and said, "I believe in John Watson."

John smiled and nodded, then cleared his throat to compose himself. Right. He was a soldier, he'd known battle, hell, he'd already taken a bullet. If it came down to just him and Moran, then he was going to give Moran everything he had. But first… "You said there'd be toast, didn't you?"

Sherlock smiled. "Indeed." He rose from the blankets and turned on the gas cooker. "Cup of tea would also be lovely," John said, still trying to take it all in.

"Of course."

"When we get back to Baker Street, I'd like to see you make the tea and toast a bit more often," John said, his eyes twinkling.

Sherlock took in the small, very brave figure of his dear friend. He knew there was nothing more he could do to save John's life, it was all in John's own hands. Luckily, Sherlock _did _believe in John Watson. "It will be my pleasure to make you all the tea and toast you can consume."

Thirty minutes later, after their breakfast and a quick washing up, John followed Sherlock through a labyrinth of tunnels, hallways and stairways until he could start to hear the sounds of one of London's busiest Underground stops – Piccadilly Circus. He became aware that they were in a service area for some shops and restaurants that serviced tube passengers. At the end of the hall was a door with a small glass window, on the other side of which were hundreds, possibly thousands of people coming and going with absolutely no idea that John Watson was on the run for his life.

Sherlock, checking his watch, made for the door with John close at his heels. "You have your phone, John?" John's right hand jammed into his jeans pocket before he nodded. Sherlock continued, "Moran will try to reach you soon. Be ready. And promise me, when I call you, answer, no matter what Moran's told you to do. Answer the phone and tell me where you're going. I won't try and stop you, but damned if I'm going to waste time running all over London when you really need me. Promise?"

"I promise."

"Look out this window," Sherlock bade him. John peered out, but just saw harried people rushing to their destinations. "Do you see something that shouldn't be there?" John scoured the station again, wondering if the sniper was out there. "It's not Moran," Sherlock said, "it's the bin across the way. See it?"

"Yeah. But hang on. There aren't supposed to be bins at the tube stops…," John said before Sherlock interrupted him.

"Because they're easy places to plant a bomb. But that bin doesn't contain a bomb. It contains a helmet. In a minute, I'm going to walk out into the station where I'll be joined by several…friends. When you see us all ascend to street level, go to that bin and fetch a helmet. Put it on immediately. Then exit the station and cross to the London Pavilion. I'll be waiting for you. Do you understand?"

"Uh..yeah. Got it."

Sherlock put his hands on John's shoulders. "No going back after this moment. You alright?"

John drew a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. "Fine. You?"

Sherlock smiled that crooked devilish grin. "Never better. I'm off. See you in a few," he said, sliding out the door and walking boldly toward the center of the station. John watched his progress with equal parts anxiety and anticipation, wondering who in the hell the "friends" were that Sherlock had referred to. His eyes swept across the expanse of the station, when suddenly he did a double-take. Sherlock was walking out of a pasties shop on the other side of the station. How had he gotten over there so quickly, when just a moment ago… Wait! There was Sherlock again, coming out of a convenience shop. And again, from the coffee shop!

John's jaw hung open in absolute shock as suddenly there were over 100 Sherlock Holmeses parading through the Piccadilly Circus tube station. He couldn't help but smile at the scene. Some were the real Sherlock's height, some taller and many were shorter. They looked to be wearing wigs and masks, and they all had on long, dark coats. John could no longer tell which was the original. Other passengers were starting to notice this shocking occurrence and cell phone cameras were already out and flashing away. Sherlock's continued to stream in from every direction and then suddenly, seemingly without a signal and in complete unison, they turned as a herd and marched up the stairs and out into the bustle of Piccadilly Circus.

John was so stunned that for a moment he forgot what he was supposed to be doing. Right, the bin! He ripped open the door, tore across the open space, reached into the bin and found a shiny black motorbike helmet. Racing for the stairs John jammed the helmet on his head and hurtled outside. As far as he could see there were swarms of Sherlock Holmeses, perhaps even more than had been in the actual station. People everywhere were buzzing about this bizarre scene and John heard Sherlock's name shouted over and over. Damn, the man certainly enjoyed spectacle.

Within seconds, the Sherlocks began to disperse in a radial manner, some walking, some getting into cabs, other riding bicycles or pushing scooters. They went in every direction, radiating away from Piccadilly Circus. John was swept up in the sight. Suddenly, there was a voice inside his head. Well, it was coming from the helmet, but it sounded like it was inside his head. "John! Pull yourself together and get over here," Sherlock (the original one) shouted. "Right," John replied, walking quickly to the London Pavilion. There was a Sherlock, wearing a helmet, revving a sleek black motorbike.

"Ah, hello?" John said, unsure of whether or not the Sherlock on the bike was actually his Sherlock.

"Get on, John," Sherlock growled, rolling his wrist and making the bike roar. John leapt onto the back of the bike and latched onto the driver's waist.

John couldn't resist asking, "is this really you?"

The driver turned and lifted the shield of his helmet briefly. John stared into the eyes of the one and only Sherlock Holmes. "Who else would it be?" Sherlock grinned.

"Well, there are an awful lot of Sherlocks around today," John replied.

"Have you heard of SantaCon? Hundreds of people get together dressed as Santa every Christmas," Sherlock said. "From a distance it's impossible to tell them apart. And of course, I also have Moriarty to thank for the idea. He used a rubber mask of my face to make those kidnapped kids believe that I'd been their captor. That's why the girl screamed," Sherlock said.

"Well, thank you, Jim Moriarty," John said with a smile.

"Hold on, John," he said, lowering his visor and revving the bike again, "it's time for a ride." John wrapped his arms around his friend's waist as the motorbike rocketed through London, leaving dozens of Sherlock's in its wake.


	16. Chapter 16

John Watson has an enormous grin plastered to his face. Really, how could he not? After all, he's clinging to his insane flatmate as they hurtle through the streets of London on a motorbike on an absolutely gorgeous (and far too rare) sunny spring day. Sherlock seems to have an aversion to braking, so every corner is taken at ridiculous speeds, tires squealing and rubber burning. After a particularly perilous hairpin curve in which the bike is tipped so far to their right that John could drag his fingertips along the ground, he shouts, "Bloody hell, Sherlock! You're going to kill me before Moran gets a chance!"

John can hear Sherlock laugh through the intercom system in each of their helmets. Leave it to Sherlock to think of everything. "Smart of you, to get helmets with built-in headsets," John says.

"Yours is also bulletproof," Sherlock adds smugly.

"Well, maybe I should have it welded to my head permanently," John jokes.

"I've considered it," Sherlock responds earnestly.

"Are we in a hurry for something?"

"Not particularly."

"Then why are we tearing through London at break-neck speed, Sherlock?"

John can practically hear Sherlock smile as he answers, "because it's FUN, John!"

John smiles in agreement. He rests the side of his helmet on Sherlock's back and stretches his arms around his friend's torso, allowing himself this moment of utter happiness before the coming storm. It doesn't go unnoticed. John feels Sherlock turn a bit, as if to look over his shoulder.

Sherlock asks, "are you hugging me again?"

"Maybe. A bit. Yes," John replies, not loosening his grasp. "Should I stop?"

"No. Fine. It's…fine," Sherlock says. John feels one of Sherlock's hands come off the handlebars for a moment to give John's wrist a brief squeeze.

Sherlock asks, "are you scared?"

"Of your driving? Hell, yes," John jokes.

Sherlock gives a slight laugh and then asks again, "are you?"

John is silent for a moment and squeezes Sherlock a bit tighter. "I am. But that's as it should be. Fear can help you focus, if you use it properly," he says, recalling what his fellow soldiers would say before going into a battle zone. "The blokes in my unit used to say, 'if you're not afraid, you're either dead or stupid.'"

Sherlock gripped John's arm again. "Then be afraid, John."

John's throat was tight with emotion. He may have even sniffled a bit for a moment. Probably a bit of road dust had gotten inside his helmet. Best change the subject. "Why all the Sherlocks?"

"Moran will try to make you think that he's got me or that he could get me. I didn't want you to have to be threatened by that," Sherlock explained.

John was paying more attention to the streets now and he could see that they were nearing the Victoria Embankment, almost due west of St. James Park. As Sherlock turned down a small street toward the Thames, John could see a huge crowd of people ahead.

"What's going on?"

"London Marathon. It ends at Buckingham Palace. This is the 25 mile marker," Sherlock said, pulling over and stopping the bike. "We're here."

"At the marathon?"

"Yes. Get off the bike. I've got a gym kit and you need to make a quick change," Sherlock said, pulling out a small duffel bag from under the seat of the motorbike. Inside was a t-shirt, pair of shorts and John's trainers, which hadn't seen much action in recent years.

"Sherlock, I can't run a marathon," John said as Sherlock stuffed his arms with the athletic gear.

"Oh, I agree with you completely, John. But you can run the last mile of a marathon." Sherlock spun John around and pushed him toward a small alcove out of sight of others in the street. "Quickly, now. Moran will be calling you soon."

John was too surprised to argue and quickly changed into the running gear. As he finished, Sherlock was already gathering up his other clothing and stuffing it in the duffel, careful to pull out John's gun.

John had questions. "So, I just walk up and start running? And I'm not going to get in any trouble?"

"For a race like this you need a bib with a number," Sherlock said as he pulled a bib out of the duffel and began pinning it to John's shirt. "No one will question you, I guarantee. Just walk through the crowd and when you get to the runners, start running."

"I haven't even warmed up yet," John complained.

"This race _is_ the warm-up, John, for a much bigger contest. Stay focused on what's important." Sherlock sighed, struggling to find the right thing to say. "You need to stay safe until Moran contacts you, which will be any minute now. There are multiple tube stations within walking distance, so no matter where he is, you can get to his location." Sherlock straps a fanny pack around John's waist. "Your gun is in here, as well as an Oyster card and cash if you need a cab. Set your phone to vibrate and run with it in your hand. When Moran contacts you, remember that he has no leverage. He doesn't know where you are or I am. You're in charge and you can level the playing field by fighting back. Listen for that millisecond before the trigger is squeezed and make your move, John," Sherlock says, his voice rising with emotion, "make your move and fight back!"

John nodded. Fight back. Right. But why did he have to go it alone? "I know this is a stupid question, but can you just tell me again why we're splitting up and I'm going in there alone?"

"We have to make him think that you're willing to sacrifice yourself to save my life. If I was with you or if there were cops around, he would have his guard up. But he won't feel a threat if it's just you, John," Sherlock continued, "because he doesn't know that you _are_ a threat."

"That's me. John the threat." He sighed and tried to steel himself for what would be required of him.

Suddenly, Sherlock grabbed John's shoulders and looked directly into his face. "This is the most important thing to remember. No matter what he says, John, as soon as you know where you're meeting him, call me, do you understand?"

John nodded again and took a giant cleansing breath. There was no sense delaying the inevitable. "Right. Well, I guess this is it, then."

John looked up at Sherlock's strained face. There were many things he wanted to say, but no time to figure out how to say them. John settled for extending his hand for what he hoped would be a bracing handshake. "Cheers, mate," he said, waiting for Sherlock to shake his hand. Sherlock was still for a moment, staring at John's outstretched hand. Suddenly, in a lightning fast movement, Sherlock had swept John's arm away and instead gathered his friend up in his arms. John was utterly surprised for a moment, but soon returned the warm embrace. "Look who's hugging now," John said with a smile.

He heard Sherlock laugh and then the two men pulled away from each other. "Best get on with it," Sherlock said. "You do have a marathon to run."

John started walking toward the race, "oh, I'm not just gonna run, I'm gonna win!" As John faded into the crowd, he heard the motorbike roar to life once again. He didn't look back and he did his best not to wonder whether it would be the last time he ever saw his dearest friend.

John was able to worm his way through the crowd with relative ease and, just like Sherlock had predicted, merged into the stream of runners with absolutely no trouble. He hadn't been jogging or doing much exercise of late, so he was stiff, but because this was the final mile of the marathon, most of the other runners were running with great effort, so he didn't feel too bad. He worked up a nice sweat after only five minutes, so all-in-all he thought he was blending in pretty well.

The race route was gorgeous. Along the Themes and then up along St. James Park to Buckingham Palace. He was really running now, legs and arms pumping. There was something very freeing about it and he made a note to himself that if he survived the day, he'd try and do a bit more jogging. Large crowds cheered the runners along and John started to get swept up in the excitement of it all. In fact, as got within sight of the finish line, he'd almost forgotten about the phone in hand and so the sudden vibration caused him to break stride for a moment. He fumbled for the button to begin the conversation, but finally answered.

"Hello?" he said, slowing to a walk on the outside lane of the race.

"Dr. Watson? Sebastian Moran. Do you know who I am?"

"Yes, in fact I do."

"Excellent, then this will be a brief conversation. I've seen your friend, Sherlock Holmes today."

"Oh?"

"Yes, at Covent Garden. He looked to be taking a stroll. Of course, I didn't disturb him. But I could. You know that, right?"

"Oh, I've no doubt you could, Mr. Moran, but I've heard that Sherlock Holmes was also spotted in the queue at the London Eye and ordering at pint at Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, in addition to 100 other places today. The way it sounds, London's bursting at the seams with Sherlock Holmeses," John said, somewhat giddy remembering the sight at Piccadilly Circus.

Moran was silent. "He likes to play games, doesn't he? The suicide and then the business with the sarcophagus."

"You have no idea," John smiled.

"Do you think you can both hide forever, Dr. Watson?"

"Oh, no, Mr. Moran. Nor do I have any desire to."

"Well, come and meet me, then, and we can settle this without anymore games," Moran growled.

"I will meet you, if you give make one promise. When we're through, no matter what happens, you never harm Sherlock Holmes," John demanded.

"I have no contract for Mr. Holmes, only for you, Dr. Watson. I would only use Mr. Holmes to…motivate you to meet with me. But if you don't need any motivation, then I assure you, Mr. Holmes won't be touched," Moran finished.

"Excellent," John replied. "Well, where would you like to meet?"

"Olympic Stadium. 30 minutes. Come alone." The line went dead.

"30 minutes?" John shouted. There was no way! Actually, he was really near a tube station, so he left the marathon course and headed down, swiping his Oyster card and trying to figure out the transfers he'd need to take to get to Olympic Stadium, which was nearest the Stratford Station. There was a train pulling up to the platform as he got downstairs and he hopped on immediately, still working out his route. Only when the doors closed did he realize he hadn't phoned Sherlock to tell him the meeting place.

Shit.


	17. Chapter 17

John felt the blood drain from his face as he realized he hadn't phoned Sherlock to tell him Moran's meeting place. He contemplated getting off at the next stop and running above ground to make a call, but the clock was ticking and John was going to have trouble making it to Stratford as it was. If he stopped to phone Sherlock, there was no way he'd get to Moran in 30 minutes (now more like 27). John started to wonder what would happen if he ran late for his appointment with the assassin. "It's not like he's going to kill me twice as hard," he thought to himself with a wry chuckle. But maybe if he wasn't there on time, Moran would leave and John would miss his best opportunity to finish this, once and for all. Best not to risk it. John would have to stay on the train and call Sherlock once he'd made it to Stratford, hopefully with a bit of time to spare.

John must have been looking a bit wobbly, because suddenly a man stood up from his seat and gestured for John to sit down. "Oh, no, I'm fine," John said, "but thanks."

"Mate, you've just run a marathon! Sit!" the man insisted. John realized that he still had the race bib pinned to his t-shirt and that everyone around him assumed that he'd completed the entire 26.2 mile race, when in reality he'd run perhaps a mile. But John supposed it was best to keep up appearances, so he took the proffered seat. "Cheers," he said with a nod of his head.

A kid sitting next to John asked, "what was your time?"

"My time?"

"How long did it take to finish the race?" someone else asked.

"Oh! Right," John said, trying to recall what was an appropriate amount of time for running a marathon, "it was one hour…45?"

This was obviously not the correct answer, as everyone around him started shouting in disbelief. John amended his answer, "that's just the first bit. Double that, once or twice….you know, I don't pay much attention to times, I just do it for fun. For charity, actually. I run for charity. So…"

"Which charity?"

Again, John found himself without a proper answer. "Trees? A charity for…woodlands. Woodland, forest trust. Keeping trees…," he continued to stammer as the train pulled into the next station. "This is my stop. Ta," he said, jumping up and out of the car as quickly as possible. He ripped off the race bib and dashed to make the transfer to the Circle Line. Damn, this was stressful!

By the time John had reached his final destination (wait, he didn't want to use the word 'final' right now), he had about three minutes left before he needed to be at Olympic Stadium. He came out of the tube station blinking his eyes at the bright sunshine and fumbling for his phone, dialing Sherlock, who answered instantly. "Where and when?" Sherlock asked in a clipped tone.

John was startled for a second and then blurted out, "Olympic Stadium, 30 minutes."

"Thirty minutes?"

John took a breath, "yes, but that was 27 minutes ago. I got on the tube and forgot to call," John said in a small voice. "Sorry."

There was silence on the other end of the phone. "I won't be able to reach you in time," Sherlock finally said, his voice ragged and desperate.

"I know, but that was the plan anyway, right? I have to face him alone? Be a soldier, put an end to it, once and for all," John said, trying to find some comfort in the words.

Again, there was silence. John thought maybe the call had been dropped. "Sherlock? You still there?"

"I'm here, John."

"Listen, it's going to be alright. I'll do exactly as you told me and he'll have to fight on my terms, which will put me at an advantage. Don't worry," John said in his most convincing voice.

Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes for a second and took a steadying breath. This was a potentially life-threatening move, as he was currently hurtling down the A11 toward Olympic Park at blazing speed. John was correct, the plan was for John to draw Moran into a close quarter fight, but that wasn't the whole plan. The other part relied on Sherlock's participation, for he knew Moran would let down his guard and go after John, and it was then that Sherlock planned to kill the man. That was what would stop Moran and save John's life. But now, there was simply no way.

John had kept walking briskly through Olympic Park during this phone call. The park was familiar to him, as he had watched the opening ceremony and much of the 2012 London Olympics on the telly, and had also gotten a day pass to Olympic Park. Even though he wasn't able to get a ticket to any of the sport events, he still enjoyed soaking up the special spirit of the Olympics with others from around the world. Walking around the park that day last summer, he was absolutely mesmerized by the exterior of Olympic Stadium. Large sheets of fabric wrapped the structure, making it look almost futuristic. He could see the main entrance ahead. He stopped.

"I'm here," he told Sherlock. "I'm going in."

"Wait for me."

"I can't. You know I can't, Sherlock."

"John…"

"No, we're not…saying goodbye. Just…I'm just hanging up the phone, definitely not saying goodbye, and you'll be here soon and I'll see you. I'll see you," John said in a voice charged with emotion and sadness.

"John, wait," Sherlock started to say as John disconnected their call, cutting off his friend. John's knees were weak and he felt like he might fall apart. A chime from his phone cleared his head quickly. A text from Moran.

"The Door is Open."

It's time. There was no going back now, no delaying what would come. John walked to the front door and sure enough, it swung open at his touch. He wondered why there are no security guards here, but then saw two crumpled bodies in dark uniforms. Oh. Right.

Ahead are the entrances for ticket holders to enter the seating area, but that's not where John wants to go, because he knows Moran will be set up and waiting for him to enter through one of those doors. John wants to get down on the track or the playing field, so he begins to sprint down a flight of stairs that takes him deep under the stadium. There are only emergency lights here and most areas are in darkness, which works to his advantage. Locker rooms ahead and he pushes through, hoping that he'll find a tunnel leading up to the stadium floor and yes, there it is, he can see it in front of him now. He pulls the gun out of the fanny pack, it's cocked and loose in his hand. There will be another tunnel like this on the other side of the stadium and that's his destination. He'll race across the field as fast as he can and either get shot or see Moran or get all the way to the other side. He takes a deep breath. It's a long way across.

"Thank goodness I'm already warmed up," he thinks. "Well, here goes nothing."

John begins to power up the ramp and hits the field at full speed. He thinks briefly about how many of the world's most elite runners have competed in this stadium. As his arms and legs pump and his lungs grasp for air, he feels a bit like a lumbering bear, but he was actually running quickly and providing a very elusive target. He knew a sniper needed a moment of stillness from a victim for a perfect shot and he was determined not to give Moran that. He pushed himself and was near mid-field when John thought of Sherlock and for just a moment, he stopped thinking about running and started thinking about fighting. His senses were suddenly aware of Moran's gun scope on him, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up straight, waiting for the trigger to be pulled. And then from the right and a bit behind him, there was a slight click as the gun was readied. That was all he needed. John propelled himself into the air and twisted his body, bringing his gun up and aiming for that spot in the dark where the click originated. As he scanned the area, his eyes caught a tiny round glimmer where the light was catching the glass of the gun's scope. He aimed for that shiny dot, not with the precision of a detached sniper who waits for a perfect shot, but with the opportunism of a solider who takes whatever shot he can get.

Moran fired, too, at virtually the same second. Their bullets crossed paths, both true and on the mark. John's bullet shattered the sniper's rifle and bored into Moran's left shoulder, in a wound that eerily echoed the one that had sent John home from Afghanistan. And Moran's bullet found John Watson's skull, slicing along the right temple, instantly knocking him unconscious and leaving him lying in the middle of Olympic Stadium, bleeding profusely, without a thought in his head.


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock's link with John was severed. There was no point in trying John back, he was on the battlefield now, and warriors didn't answer their mobile. Sherlock tried Lestrade instead, who answered on the first ring. "Lestra-."

"John is meeting Moran at Olympic Stadium," Sherlock shouted. "Get every man you can there at once!"

"Oh, bloody hell. Why would John do that?" Lestrade asked as a cold terror swept down his spine.

"I'll explain later, just please…hurry. He's all alone," Sherlock said in a broken voice.

Lestrade could feel the emotional wound in Sherlock's tone. "I'm on the way," he said, moving to hang up the phone. Sherlock's desperate cry stopped him.

"Lestrade!"

"What?"

"You'll need to send an ambulance," Sherlock whispered and then disconnected the call. There were tears stinging his eyes and a lump in his throat. Not a good time for this. Better to analyze the situation. Save the emotion for later. Sherlock calculated the distance to be traveled, the rate at which he was driving, variables, such as traffic and wind, and came to the same conclusion for the eleventh time – he wouldn't be in time to save John. In fact, in the four minutes since John severed their phone call, Sherlock estimated that the confrontation between Moran and John would have already occurred or was occurring at this precise moment in time. A moment when Sherlock was weaving through traffic, flying as fast as his motorbike could go, bitterly angry at himself for coming out of hiding, and for not only failing to protect John, but pushing him toward his demise. The phrase, "if John dies…," kept surfacing in his mind, but he pushed it away like a pesky fly. He would keep that thought gauzy and incomplete, and then it couldn't come true. Sherlock distracted himself by thinking that maybe the confrontation hadn't happened yet, maybe there had been a delay or John didn't find Moran or he decided to wait for Sherlock…

No, the initial confrontation was over, he was sure of it. He _felt_ it. There was nothing Sherlock could do about that. But that didn't necessarily mean that John was dead. Dying, highly possible, perhaps even probable. But dead? Sherlock Holmes didn't believe in many things, but he did believe in John Watson, and John had been prepared to give as good as he got. He doubted that Moran had missed his target completely, but he was sure that John hadn't gone down without a fight, which meant that he may be trapped or wounded. There was a chance of this, a real chance, in which case, every second mattered. Sherlock accelerated to a highly dangerous rate of speed, but though his bike was hurtling toward Olympic Stadium, he felt the world around him slow down and focus. He wouldn't be too late, he couldn't be. John needed him and Sherlock was almost there.

And then he was racing through Olympic Park, riding the motorbike on paths that were meant for pedestrians and prams, and across a wide grassy area until he was in front of the Stadium. He cut the bike and let it roll to the ground, already running to the door and then through to one of the entrances John had passed up earlier, the ones for the ticket holders, that lead to the seating sections. Running still, he burst into the Stadium proper and began hurtling down the stairs toward the arena floor. Sherlock took in the dramatic scene before him in a split second. John was lying unconscious or possibly dead in the middle of the stadium with a gunshot wound to the right side of his head. Sebastian Moran was also suffering from a gunshot wound, as well as other wounds across his face. John must have literally shot the gun out of Moran's hands.

But Moran was not unconscious, he was dragging himself from the seating area and across the field to where John was lying. And now Sherlock could see Moran's target, John's gun, which was still clutched in his right hand. It became Sherlock's target, too, as he leapt down the stadium stairs toward the main floor. Get the gun and stop Moran. And then John wouldn't die, couldn't die…

He was vaulting over the railing now that separated spectators from the sport and racing toward John. Moran stopped for a split second and their eyes met. Sherlock knew in that moment that Moran was calculating whether or not he could reach the gun first, or whether he should run. But the gun was the choice for both men. Sherlock had farther to go, but he was running full out, long legs flying across the distance, knowing that a single second might be the difference between John's life or death. Moran was badly wounded, but focused now on getting the gun, on finishing the job. They were only a dozen meters apart and then a handful and then one. Both men dove for the gun, striving to wrest it out of John's hand. It slipped and skittered across the floor and behind them. Sherlock took advantage of Moran's wounds by punching him hard in the shoulder, which caused Moran to wheel back and cry out in pain.

Sherlock took a second, only a heartbeat, really, to look at his friend's prone form, just long enough to see John's chest rise with breath. God, yes. There was something to fight for. A charge of energy went through Sherlock as he flung himself toward Moran. They grappled like ancient gladiators, each trying to be the first man to the gun. Sherlock tried several times to knock Moran down for just long enough to reach the gun, but Moran always scrambled back up, only to pull Sherlock down again. They struggled and sweat, bruised and bloodied, each searching for an opening the other was reticent to give. All the while, Sherlock kept calculating John's rate of blood loss and how much longer his friend could survive without medical treatment. At the moment, he thought nine minutes at the outside.

Moran charged him again, going for Sherlock's legs, trying to knock him off his feet. But Sherlock was fast and dodged Moran, feinting right and then going left, straight toward the gun. His arm reached out, it was only inches away and he could almost feel the cold metal in his hand when suddenly there was a searing pain in his thigh. Sherlock looked over his shoulder to see Moran's hand on a large blade that was sticking out the back of his leg. Sherlock tried to kick back, to get Moran off him so he could go just that last bit farther to the gun, but Moran increased his pressure on the knife and then pulled Sherlock backwards, scrambling over him and grabbing the gun, victoriously.

"Ha ha!" Moran shouted, his breathing labored after the long struggle to get the gun. He held up the weapon in a crude version of a victory pose, which was restricted due to his injuries.

Sherlock looked back at John, who continued to bleed, drawing ever closer to the edge from which he could not be pulled back. He dug the knife out of his thigh and contemplated throwing it at Moran, but the sniper turned the gun on Sherlock. "Toss it away," Moran ordered. Sherlock threw the knife aside and pulled himself into a sitting position. It was the best he could do at the moment.

Moran kept the gun trained on Sherlock as he walked over to check on John. "The funny thing is that he's going to die anyway. I didn't even need this gun," the sniper said, not bragging, but merely noting the obvious. "You're the genius, tell me how long he has left and I'll decide whether or not I should waste another bullet."

Sherlock crawled to John's side. The blood had soaked the floor, it was everywhere. He estimated that John had lost too much already to make it back, but in another few minutes… "Six or seven minutes, without medical intervention," Sherlock whispered.

"Six or seven minutes? Well, that's practically forever," Moran said, bringing the tip of the gun to John's left temple. "This'll be better for everyone," he continued, preparing to put out John Watson's bright flame forever.

"Wait," Sherlock interjected. "You don't have to do this, Moran."

"I have a contract."

"With a dead man."

"A contract is a contract. The job has to get done," Moran said firmly.

Sherlock wouldn't let Moran turn back to John without a fight. "Moriarty is dead. He was a terrible man. He wanted to punish me for his own amusement. He was cruel and childish. Are you going to let someone like that reach out from the grave and take a man like John Watson off the face of the earth?" Sherlock questioned in a trembling voice.

Moran was shaking his head, "I've never broken a contract."

"Then start now. Because John is too good to die. This man was a doctor in the army, he saw battle in Afghanistan. There are men alive today thanks to the courage of John Watson, who risked his own life to save them during bombings and hails of gunfire. There are little boys and girls who have a mum or a dad today because of him. He took a bullet in the shoulder, a bullet meant for another man. He's a bona fide hero, a thousand times better man than you or I could ever dream of becoming. There are so many people who love him, who would shed countless tears for him. But you're duty bound to kill him just because he had the terrible misfortune of being my flatmate. The world is a cruel place, isn't it, Sebastian, if something as benign as that can put a target on a man's head?"

There was a long measure of silence. Sherlock began to think that Moran was just going to wait until John died from his wound, "But If I let him go…"

"If you let him go, no one will care that you broke the contract, least of all Moriarty, who is dead and forgotten," Sherlock said in what had to be the world's most convincing voice. "If you let him go, then you, Sebastian Moran, will have done a good thing, a heroic deed, and the world will be a much better place because of you," Sherlock continued. "Wouldn't it be a welcome change to do something good for once?"

He saw Moran swallow. Sherlock was reaching him with sentiment, appealing to his better nature, although it was buried deep. But the problem was there was no time to continue persuading Moran, because John was down to his final minutes on this earth. "I'm going to stop the bleeding, Sebastian. You can shoot me if you like, but I can't watch my friend die without trying to save him," Sherlock said, taking a handkerchief out of his pocket and pressing it to John's forehead. It was like closing the barn door after all the horses were out – too little, too late. Still, it felt good to do something, to touch John's pale face.

Moran stepped behind him and Sherlock saw the shadow of the gun pointing toward his head. So this would be it, then. He and John would both die today. So be it. Moran's voice came out hoarsely. "Contract void," Moran said, "save him, if you can."

Sherlock was stunned and could only gasp, "thank you" as Moran limped away. He could hear sirens in the distance and he hoped like hell that the ambulance was near. Sherlock tried to rouse John. "John? It's okay now. You're safe. It's okay," he said, applying pressure to John's temple and holding his friend's body close.

"Oh, god, John, please be okay," Sherlock cried, as great sobs wracked his body.


	19. Chapter 19

Lying in the middle of London Olympic Stadium, Sherlock Holmes clutched his dying friend with desperation. Despite the massive blood loss, he could see that the bullet wound wasn't deep. Rather, the bullet had grazed John's right temple and above his ear, probably cracking the skull, but not penetrating the brain. The problem was that it had nicked the artery that ran from the neck to he head, supplying a large portion of necessary blood and oxygen to the brain. The pressure Sherlock was applying to the wound was helping to stem the flow, but John needed a blood transfusion and he needed it now.

Sherlock heard the sirens grow louder, car doors slammed and police entered the Stadium. It would be a matter of seconds now, until they found him and John. Long seconds, as Sherlock contemplated a future without his best friend and flatmate. For a year and a half, Sherlock had been in hiding, all the while working toward what he hoped would be a happy homecoming. Now that would never be. He knew the paramedics would pull him away from John the moment they got on scene. And they'd try to pump blood into John's body in a desperate attempt to save his life, but somewhere on the ride from the Stadium to hospital, John would slip away, surrounded by no one who knew or loved him. Sherlock would rather that John died here, in his arms, treasured and admired, and desperately loved, than in a cold, impersonal ambulance.

Sherlock choked back a wrenching sob and whispered to his dying friend, "John, you fought so hard. You won, you really did. I'm so proud of you and I…love you with all my heart, what there is of it." His fingers brushed the hair from John's forehead, thumb trailing along John's brow. "If you want to leave, John, I understand," Sherlock said, his voice cracking with the words. "You're so brave and strong, but if you want to let go, I'll hold you and keep you safe, alright?" He pressed his lips to John's forehead, kissing him goodbye. Sherlock didn't know if any part of John's consciousness could hear him, or if John could feel any comfort from Sherlock's touch, but in these final seconds of John's life, Sherlock vowed to wrap his friend in as much peace and love as he could muster, until John slipped away.

But John Watson did not slip away. John Watson clung to life and when the paramedics finally reached him, there was a fluttering pulse that was not yet extinguished. The pulse continued to flicker throughout the breakneck ride to the emergency room and throughout the hours long surgery to repair the delicate damaged arteries and the shattered bits of skull. That same pulse stayed steady throughout a week where the body of John Watson lay in a medically induced coma while doctors struggled to contain swelling of the brain. And the pulse grew stronger when it felt the comforting presence of Sherlock Holmes at the bedside.

There was chaos at the Stadium when the police and emergency workers first arrived. Sherlock remembered the horrified look on Lestrade's face as he took in the scene - Sherlock holding John's lifeless body, both men saturated in blood. But John was alive and whisked away in seconds, torn from Sherlock's arms. Sherlock remembered the terrifying feeling of absolute emptiness as his friend was ripped away and he was left behind, alone. Lestrade tried to get Sherlock to explain what happened, to tell him where Moran had gone, but Sherlock was so grief torn he was unable to speak. It was Lestrade who finally realized that Sherlock had been injured, stabbed in the back of the leg. Getting the man into an ambulance was a nightmare, until Lestrade told Sherlock he was going to be with John.

Sherlock had a deep wound, but no arteries were damaged, so it was done up with stitches. It was painful as hell, particularly when he was sitting, but still he sat by John's bedside day and night, watching in wonder as his friend grew stronger, came out of the coma and, one glorious sunny day, opened his eyes.

"Am I alive?" he asked Sherlock, unsure if the bright, white hospital room was real.

"Very much so, John. In fact, I'm no longer certain you're capable of dying," Sherlock responded. "You lost more blood than seems feasible, and yet here you are."

"Did I kill Moran?"

"No."

"You killed him," John said, believing it impossible that Moran would still be alive.

"I did not," Sherlock said, shaking his head.

"Then…how are we not dead?"

"I…explained how valuable you are. That you're the best man I've ever met and that the world would be a much less…beautiful place without you in it," Sherlock explained, trying to keep his emotions in control.

"You talked a killer out of killing," John said in awe.

"I merely reasoned with him."

"You weren't using reason, you were using sentiment."

"Well, it is a useful tool on lesser minds."

John laughed. "You saved me, Sherlock," John said, looking deeply into Sherlock's eyes.

"Barely."

"Alive is alive."

"Yes." Sherlock smiled, his heart buoyant. "Yes."

The homecoming was for both John and Sherlock – John for getting out of the hospital and Sherlock for being back from the dead. Mrs. Hudson was thrilled to have the boys back at 221B Baker Street and had made a nice little spread. Molly and Greg were there to celebrate and several toasts were made, though John wasn't able to drink any alcohol due to the medications he was taking.

At some point when Molly and Mrs. Hudson were plying John with another canapé, Lestrade pulled Sherlock aside. "Sorry to talk about business, but you're going to have to give a statement on the whole Moriarty/fake suicide thing tomorrow. The Super is dogging me hard on this, Sherlock, and I can't put it off any more."

"I'll be in, Lestrade. I just wanted to make certain John got home safely," the detective said. "If you need to arrest me, I'll understand it's nothing personal."

"Arrest you? You just saved a decorated war hero. You're the darling of the press. If I arrested you, I'd be run out of town on a rail," Lestrade smiled. "I'm not going to arrest you, Sherlock, and I'll make sure no one else does either. But come down to the Yard and help me make it look good, alright?"

Sherlock nodded as Lestrade went to refresh his drink. Sherlock walked to the window, peering out and wondering where Sebastian Moran might be tonight. One thing he was certain of, it was nowhere near 221B Baker Street. And he couldn't have been happier for that.

After the goodbyes had been made and the guests had returned home, John began shuffling about in the kitchen, making a pot of tea. Sherlock heard the kettle whistle, the cups rattle, the water splash into the mugs. John left the kitchen for a moment and Sherlock heard him rummaging around in one of the hall cupboards. Now with a long object clutched under his arm, John collected the teacups and brought them out to the sitting room.

"Here you are, Sherlock."

Sherlock reached up for the cup, but was more curious about what John had under his arm. "What's that?"

John held it out to Sherlock. "My old cane. I noticed you limping and I thought with your leg injury that you're the one who needs it now, not me," John said, a bit cheekily.

"That may be, John, but it's several inches too short for me," Sherlock smiled. "Unless you think I should stoop?"

"It can be adjusted," John replied.

"I think I'll be fine without."

"Suit yourself," John answered, sitting down to enjoy his tea.

This was the first happy, quiet moment the flat had seen in far too long to remember. Sherlock took in the cozy room, the crackling fire, the scent of the steaming tea and the content face of his flat mate, nestled into his favorite chair with a cup of tea. Everything was right with the world, once again, so Sherlock didn't quite understand why he felt on the cusp of tears. Mid-sip, John noticed the strange expression on his flatmate's face and asked, "Sherlock, are you alright?"

Sherlock cleared his throat, put his hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out an object. "Actually, John, I've got something for you, too." He opened his fist and sitting on his hand was the blue ball. John reached out and let his fingers curl around it.

John smiled, "I never thought I would be able to follow a trail from this little blue ball all the way to you, Sherlock. I guess some of your detecting skills have rubbed off on me."

Sherlock shook his head. "If anything, John, you're the one who's altered me."

"What do you mean?"

Taking a ragged breath, Sherlock collected himself to speak. "Most people would look at my life and think, 'oh, he hasn't got much to live for.' And maybe they'd be right, in some regards. No wife, no children, no house, not even a dog. But I have a friend, the most loyal, unwavering, caring friend in the entire world. I know in the past that people have thought that I'm the remarkable one, John, but they don't see how utterly amazing you are. If you had been anyone else in the world and I would have walked away to a new life far away and never returned to London. But I couldn't walk away from you, because I knew you would never give up on me. So, thank you, John. Thank you for being boring, predictable, wonderful you. Because you saved us both. You're not just the reason I'm still alive, you're my reason for being alive. Thank you."

John Watson had probably never been as happy as he was at that moment. He let the emotions wash over him as if they were healing agents. They made the ache at his temple feel better, repaired the damage to his shoulder and closed the wound that 18 missing months had carved into his heart. John nodded at Sherlock, taking a deep breath. "Right," he said, in his very understated British manner, and took another delicious sip of tea.

The end.


End file.
